


you were burned, you were about to burn (you're still on fire)

by CallicoKitten



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Asexual Character, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Mental Instability, Past Child Abuse, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, and an ice cream, team credence deserves the fucking world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:05:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: They pull him from the wreckage of the subway station and throw him in a cell.Come on, my boy, my special boy,  Graves croons. You can save us both.-credence is still under grindelwald's thumb when he busts them both out of macusa, they head to europe, newt follows.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: so i started this intending to go down the credence is saved and is happy but im a bad person, i guess, or maybe i have a lot of issues to work out bc this is no longer that fic. there'll be a more detailed explainer in the next chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> title is from straw house, straw dog by richard siken

They pull him from the wreckage of the subway station and throw him in a cell.

He is disorientated - shaking. He can feel It, the darkness, black as pitch and hot and burning under his skin and he has always tried to keep it tamped down put up walls and barricades and hide it ( _hide it, hide it, hide it_ ) keep it down in the depths, where no one can see (Mama can't find out - mustn't find out - )

It is going to burst out. He is powerless against it and these men and women, these demons his mother warned him about, raised him to hate (these people Graves made such promises of and about - one hand firm and warm and calloused on the back of Credence's neck, the other cupping his jaw, _you're special, Credence, I knew it from the moment I first saw you,_ a thumb brushed against his cheek bone, foreheads pressed together - _aren't you my special boy -_ )

Lies. _Lies._

"Please," he mumbles. " _Please don't -_ "

There are hands on him, on his back, on his shoulders, on his arms, wands pointed at his throat, at his chest.

_I don't want to hurt you._

(But he _does_. He wants to tear them apart, rip them limb from limb and toss them to the pavement, shatter buildings, drain them dry, he wants to - )

"Just cooperate," someone is saying, someone kind, a woman with a soft voice. "Cooperate with them, Credence, please."

His palm is stinging. It always stings these days (and Mama used to beat him on the back so it hurt to move around but she must have realised that he works better when he's not rent open and bleeding or else maybe she just liked it better knowing everyone could see - knowing he couldn't hide the marks - )

"He's just a child," the woman says and Credence looks. She's feet away but it feels like miles. A man is with her, the man from before. _Can I come across to you Credence? I'm here to help you._

They have Graves in cuffs. He's on his knees, "Don't listen to them, Credence!" he shouts. "They're trying to trick you! They'll kill you, Credence. You hear me? They'll kill you!"

"I don't - " Credence mumbles, there are people guiding him but his feet drag, his chest is tight, he doesn't want to - _he doesn't want to_ \- "No," he moans, tries to resist, tries to stop. He stumbles. Their grip on his arms tighten.

(He deserves it. He's a murderer. A freak. He deserves it. Deserves death.)

" _Please,_ " he tries again. "I don't want - I didn't - I'm sorry - " and he can feel himself slipping, feels the raw power crackling through his bones, his blood bleeding black, shaking - shaking _so hard_ -

"Will somebody shut him up!" demands a woman, the woman who gives the commands and someone waves a wand, shoots something sticky over Graves' mouth but Credence is - _Credence is_ -

"Tina," someone says. "Tina, talk to him. He listened to you before. Talk to him. Keep him grounded."

And the woman says: "Credence, I need you to focus on my voice, okay?"

"I can't," Credence mumbles, his eyes are squeezed shut. "I can't stop it - please, you have to help me. _Help me_."

(Because he can't - he _can't_.)

"We'll help you, okay?" The woman says. When Credence opens his eyes, she's close to him. The man too. "I told you before," the man says. "We're to help you. It's going to be alright, Credence," and he smiles but he smiles differently than Graves. Softer, brighter. Warmer.

"Promise?" Credence finds himself blurting. (But Graves promised. He promised to take Credence away, to make her stop, Credence just had to - )

"I promise, Credence," the woman says.

"As do I," the man adds.

And it's not much, not anything in fact but it holds him steady and the commanding woman nods to people holding him and suddenly, he's in a cell.

\---

The cell is small and cold, bare walls and dim light.

He hears Graves' voice in his head, _Come Credence, you're strong enough to break out, you know that you are. You're so much more than I thought you'd be. So much more powerful._

He curls in on himself, draws his knees up to his chest (and he can feel Graves' ghost-touches, on his cheek and on his neck and around his rib cage and under his shirt and Graves' hot breath, dark eyes - Mama would be furious if she knew, call him filthy, flay his skin off probably - but he doesn't - he just wants someone to make _it stop_.

 _It doesn't matter anymore,_ Graves hisses. _Your mama is dead, Credence. You killed her. But you can_ save _us both if you just let go._ )

Credence whimpers.

He doesn't want this. Doesn't want any of this.

( _Should have let them kill you, then.)_

Graves' pendant is cool against his skin.

 _Come on, my boy, my special boy,_ Graves croons. _You can save us both. You see how they treat you?_

The woman promised. The man promised. They'll come for him. They'll help him.

Graves' laugh is guttural and pointy, like razor blades and belt buckles. _You think so, do you? Tell me, Credence, why would they help you? I've helped you. I'm the only one who's ever given a damn about you._

He presses his hands over his ears. Not listening. Not anymore.

_I can help you. We can help each other. They fear you. And what do people do with things they fear, Credence? What did your mother do to you?_

(Freak.)

_They destroy it._

\---

The commanding woman is the President. She stands before Credence regal and terrifying, has had him led here from his cell by people who will not meet Credence's eye, who treat him as an armed device, ready to go off.

"I am sorry," the President says and maybe she sounds it but maybe she doesn't. "But our laws are clear, there is only one punishment for the killing of a no-maj."

The man and woman from before, the ones that promised to help him are there, by the President's side. The man flinches, the woman gasps like she's been struck. "You can't!" she yells. "He's just a child, he had _no_ idea - "

"He is of age," The President cuts her off smoothly.

"You know what that woman did to him!" The woman continues to protest. "He had no control over what he did!"

"Ms Goldstein, I will have you removed," The President warns. "That goes for you too, Mr Scamander. As I said: our laws are clear. Credence Barebone, for the murder of Mary Lou Barebone, you will be executed."

 _No,_ Credence thinks. _No._ This isn't what was supposed to - this was supposed to go differently. "You promised," he says, quietly. Looks at Ms Goldstein and Mr Scamander. "You promised!" he says louder and _oh_ , he can feel it coming, he can feel his edges blur -

(Graves is laughing somewhere in his head, _I told you, dear boy, I told you._ )

He is shaking, he is shaking, he is _shaking_ and then -

"Mr Scamander contain him!" the President commands and suddenly he feels stuck. Glued together. The magic burning hotly under his skin, it burns, it crackles, it wants to get out -

"Stop!" he shouts, screams, _begs_ because oh, it _burns_.

Mr Scamander stands, his wand raised. There is something translucent around Credence, baring him aloft and the magic explodes outwards and bounces back, knitting him back into his body and tearing apart again.

"Stop, _please_."

"I am sorry," Scamander is saying (and he looks it, definitely looks it.) "I am so, so sorry."

"Take him back to his cell," The President says. Her voice is heavy. "We will carry out the sentence tomorrow."

"You said you'd help!" Credence yells. "You said you'd _help me -_ please..."

"We will," Goldstein is saying. Over and over and over. "We will, I promise, Credence. I promise, do you hear me? We will get you out of here!"

\---

The translucent bubble Scamander has him trapped in doesn't burst until he's back in his cell and the door is firmly shut behind him. Credence falls hard, in a tangle of limbs to the floor, Scamander's apologies ringing in his ears.

 _I'm sorry, Credence,_ Graves says, soft and gentle. _I tried to warn you. These people know nothing but don't worry; I won't let them hurt you. I'll protect you. All you have to do is get me out of here._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so remember last chapter when i was all like 'yeah its gonna be 100% fluff and newt saving the day etc, etc' it's not that anymore. there are a bunch of great fics like that already and i decided i kind of wanted to write credence saving himself, eventually.
> 
> i have a lot of half-baked ideas for where this fic is going e.g. it may involve original!graves and leta lestrange if i split the narrative between credence & newt and it will probably end up long and rambly and will definitely be dark so you know, grab a flashlight. 
> 
> oh, and thanks for all the comments <3

“You’re not - ” Credence says. “You’re  _ not -  _ ”

The man before him, the man who has been whispering in his ear all this time, the man he is freeing is not Mr Graves. He bright eyes where they should be dark, light hair where it should be black and grey and there is no sympathy in his gaze, there is only an easy sneer, a glint of thirst and danger. 

He has made a mistake. Oh, he has made a  _ mistake.  _

He wants to go back. He wants to go  _ back _ but the people who imprisoned him must have heard the walls blowing out and crumbling as he walked, must have heard the crackle of his - of his - his  _ magic  _ (his curse, his  _ punishment -  _ )

“I am, Credence,” the man who isn’t Graves says. “You’re going to have to trust me.” He advances, stepping through the piles of brick and mortar towards Credence and Credence flinches back.

“No!” he says. “ _ Stop _ ! You’re not him! You’re not - Who are you? Where is he?”

A flicker of impatience passes across the man’s face and he looks up, towards the sound of footsteps against stone floors. “We do not have  _ time  _ for this,” he says. There is the trace of an accent and then he is lunging, grabbing Credence by the arm and in the next breath they are no longer in the cells - they are in the streets.

Credence’s legs give out, it is only the man that keeps him upright. He has seen Mr Graves do this before but has never -  _ never  _ imagined how it would feel. “Where - ” he mumbles. “Where - ”

The man does not answer. He keeps a vice-grip on Credence’s arm and drags him through the streets and Credence is too stunned to try and stop him. “You’re not Mr Graves,” he says, as the man yanks him forwards. “Let me go. Let me go, please. I don’t want - I don’t know you - _ please  _ \- ”

They are still in New York, he realises. He has handed out pamphlets on those steps, near those shops. (He has had people knock them out of his hands and laugh when he scrambles to collect them.)

“Let me _ go _ ,” he repeats, louder this time and his cheeks are wet with tears but he can’t remember when he started to cry. (His clothes are  _ covered  _ with brick dust and Mama will be so mad - so  _ mad  _ but she’s dead. She’s dead and it’s his fault and now here he is with this mad man and - ) 

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he whines, whimpers.

The man holding his arm stops at that. People are starting to stare. He yanks Credence closer, speaks in low tones, “Credence, if those people catch you, they will kill you. Do you understand that?”

Wordlessly, Credence nods.

“Good. I’m glad we are on the same page, there. Now, I can explain everything but for right now we need to get out of the city. Understand?”

Credence is shaking his head. He doesn’t want to go with this man. He doesn’t know this man. He wants to go back. Go back to - to - 

“Go back to  _ what _ , Credence?” The man asks, voice sharp as knives.

Credence raises his free hand to his temple.  _ How are you in my head? _

The man grins, “A neat trick, isn’t it? I can teach, if you like. I told you, Credence. Now that we’re free I can teach you anything you want.”

Credence shakes his head, “No, no, I don’t want - You’re not him. You can’t be him.”

He’s getting impatient now, Credence braces for a slap, a closed fist, an open palm ready and waiting to be handed a belt (they took Credence’s belt before they put him in the cell to stop him hanging himself) none of that comes, though. 

“When we last met,” the man says, “Before we were arrested, I gave you a pendant, something very precious to me. Triangular, a line bisecting it, a circle atop it.”

Credence’s hand goes to the pendant unbidden, it lies warm against bare skin. 

The man smiles, “Now come  _ on _ .” 

\---

He leads Credence a few blocks, doubling back and now and then, ducking into crowded shops and back alleys. Credence allows himself to be dragged, to be jerked, to be thrust into corners. 

He does not question it when the man leads him to an alleyway and taps a set of bricks sequentially, murmuring words Credence cannot hear. The bricks shift, exposing an opening. The man reaches in, extracts a wand, long and notched, and a pack. 

He waves the wand at himself and constructs a new outfit, does the same for Credence.

“There now,” he says, approvingly. “You look much better without all that brick dust.” He smooths down the woolen jumper he has created, soft on Credence’s skin. He grips Credence’s arm again but gentler this time, with his free hand he brushes Credence’s cheek.

Credence flinches away.

“Come on,” the man says, he is smiling but is scornful. “We have a boat to catch.”

\---

Credence is quiet until the man leads them in the small cabin he has booked. He does not let go of Credence’s arm until the heavy door slams shut behind them. He raises his wand as Credence scrambles away from him and presses it to the lock, whispering something under his breath. 

Credence presses himself into a corner, as far from the man as he can get. “Who - Who are you?” he asks, quietly.

The man sits down on the bottom bed of the bunks that occupy the room. The smile is back. Graves never smiled. This man’s smile makes Credence’s skin crawl.

“Why, Credence,” the man says, “I’m your friend. Surely you know that?”

“No,” Credence says. “No, I don’t know that. You’re - I don’t know you - you could have - you could have found out about the pendant - ”

“Yes,” the man agrees. “I could have. What shall I do to prove who I really am? Shall I tell you about the first time I met you when she had let your hand get infected and you were dead on your feet, half delirious with fever, not that your mother would have noticed? Shall I tell you how special I knew you were from the moment I saw you?” He drops his voice, to barely more than a whisper, “Shall I tell you about our other meetings? The  _ secret  _ ones?”

Credence flinches. (He does not like to think of  _ those  _ meetings, of teeth at his throat, of fingers pressed hard into his hips, of purred words and praises.)

“Do you believe me now?” the man asks, smugly.

Credence swallows, avoiding the man’s gaze. “Who are you?”

“My name,” he says, “Is Gellert Grindelwald.” He says it like it should carry some weight, like it is a name that should be uttered with the same fear and revulsion as that of the fallen one, the Prince of Lies,  _ Lucifer.  _

“You lied to me,” Credence says and it  _ hurts.  _ God, it hurts. 

“Yes,” Mr Grindelwald says, “And I am sorry, Credence. Truly, I am but there were things that prevented me from being open and honest with you. I had always intended on telling you the truth, Credence, but I couldn’t risk it. What if someone had tried to hurt you knowing you knew my true name? I couldn’t let that happen. Not to you, Credence.”

Credence shifts. His knees are beginning to ache from standing so he sinks down to kneel on the floor. Mr Grindelwald stands, “Please, sit down,” he says, indicating the bunk. “You must be exhausted.”

And  _ oh _ , he is but Credence shakes his head and Grindelwald sits back down, “Take all the time you need, Credence. I understand this must be difficult.”

“You hid your face.”

Grindelwald nods, “Yes. As I said there were  _ things  _ that meant I had to keep myself hidden.”

“What things?”

“Things I don’t know that you are ready to understand yet.” He must anticipate what Credence is about to say next (or maybe he’s rattling around in Credence’s thoughts) because he laughs, low in his throat, “Which I realise doesn’t build a strong case for regaining your trust, Credence. But please know that I will tell you everything in due time.”

Credence doesn’t believe him (he wants to, though. He wants to go back to when Graves was his saving grace, the pinprick of light in the darkness and Credence could dream about a life away from everything.)

“If it helps you,” Grindelwald says, “I can put on my disguise again. I can’t exactly walk around like this.” He smiles again, like it’s a joke.

“Are you a bad person, Mr Grindelwald?” Credence asks. “Is that why you have to hide?”

Grindelwald sighs. His Mama used to sigh like that. Bleak and world-weary. “Credence, I would have thought that you of all people understood that there is no good and evil in this world. There is right and there is wrong but sometimes, to do what is ultimately right, you must do some wrongs.”

Like breaking a man out of prison.

Like killing.

Like killing his mother.

(And he didn’t mean it - really, he didn’t, he just wanted her to stop - he  _ needed  _ her to stop - )

His breath keeps catching in his throat, he squeezes his eyes shut, “Oh, god,” he mumbles. “I didn’t - I didn’t mean to - ” and he is shaking again, shaking so hard he feels he might shake  _ apart -  _

But then there are arms around him. 

Grindelwald holds him steady, pressing Credence to his chest, his cheek against Credence’s hair, one hand on the small of his back, rubbing soothing circles, the other at the nape of his neck and he  _ smells  _ like Graves did, faintly of cologne but mostly of pine needles and something cold, like pine needles in winter. “Shh, shh,” he is saying. “Oh, Credence. It’s alright. You’re safe now.”

Credence wants to pull away. Wants to burst out of his skin and run, run back across the water to New York, to the wreck of his home and his promises and his dreams, to Ms Goldstein and Mr Scamander who promised to save him, who smiled at him kindly but he is so  _ tired  _ -

( _ They stood by when she called for your execution,  _ Grindelwald reminds him.  _ They can’t help you now. They won’t. But I will, alright, Credence? I will. _ )

Credence wants to  _ melt  _ into it, to have Grindelwald never let go.

\---

Credence wakes up on the bunk. Grindelwald’s coat draped over him. 

He sits up slowly. 

Grindelwald is wearing Graves’ face again, “Good morning, Credence,” he says, with a warm half-smile. “I took the liberty of procuring breakfast.” He gestures to a spread of toast and eggs. “Eat up. We have a long journey ahead of us and we may as well put the time to good use.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://paracosmss.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for all the comments
> 
> newt's chapters going forward will probably be a little longer than this one bc he's my autistic asexual darling 
> 
> i'll probably have the next credence chapter up today/tomorrow

“I don’t believe it,” Tina is saying, over and over again. “I can’t believe she would do that.”

She’s pacing, back and forth, back and forth in Newt’s shed while Newt stews and Queenie sits on the campbed and looks shellshocked. (Credence has that kind of effect on her.) 

Newt stands against the wall, he’s picked a corner, he feels safer there pressed up against the cool wood. He has his arms crossed tightly against his chest and Pickett on the collar of his coat, pressed up against his throat. Pickett’s trying to soothe him with gentle little touches but it’s not working. Tina’s pacing is very loud, clattering against the wood floors, she’s stomping so hard the jars and bottles on the shelves are clinking together.

Newt’s trying to think. 

They’ve been banned from MACUSA, President Picquery has sentenced Credence to death. And Newt gets why. Gellert Grindelwald managed to replace her number two and no one noticed for months. Years, maybe. And they’ve had no luck locating the  _ original  _ Graves.  She has to appear tough even if that means sentencing an innocent boy to death. 

“We have to do something,” Tina says. “We have to get him out of there. There must be  _ something _ …” 

“Dougal,” Newt says, eventually. “He can get in.” 

He’s grasping at straws, really. Dougal will be able to get in but he might also choose not to because he already knows how awfully it will go for them. He can’t take Tina or Queenie with him, if they get caught they’ll be punished far more thoroughly than he will. He doesn’t want that for them. 

“Yes!” Tina says, she spins to face him. “How would we get in?”

Newt has no idea but she’s looking at him with such intense hope that he can’t bare the thought of disappointing her. (He will, he already knows he will. He’s not an idiot. He’s seen how she looks at him when she thinks no one’s paying attention to her and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t share in some of that but he doesn’t - he doesn’t work like  _ that. _ He just doesn’t.) 

“I can charm the case smaller temporarily, it’s a bit of a risk but… Or I could charm something new. A hat box should work or maybe… ?” He pushes himself off the wall and casts about the shed. He had a smaller canvas bag when he first began work on his book, it should be big enough to hold himself and Credence, small enough for Dougal to carry without too much trouble. If he can only remember where he left it…

“Great,” Tina says. “So Dougal gets us in, we get Credence out and you get him out of New York. Right?”

“Uh,” Newt says, rummaging through boxes looking for the bag. “Something like that.”

“Something like that?” Tina echoes.

Newt nods, doesn’t look back at her. He hears Queenie sigh, “Tina, he doesn’t want us to go with him.”

“What?” Tina says. Then louder, “What? Newt, is that true?”

Newt turns to face her, clutching the bag to his chest. “Yes. Sorry, but if you get caught, Tina, you’ll be in so much trouble. The worst they can do to me is deport me, but you two…” he trails off. He doesn’t know enough about MACUSA to make an accurate prediction of how they’d treat Tina and Queenie but given the President’s apparent propensity for appearing tough, it won’t be good. 

“Besides,” he adds. “If it goes wrong, I’ll need back up.” He smiles weakly. 

-

They spend the evening planning, holed up in Tina and Queenie’s apartment. Queenie crashes out midway through, falling asleep sprawled across the couch. Tina gets up and slips off her shoes and jewelry and sets it all down neatly, disappears into the bedroom and comes back with a blanket to tuck around her sister. Newt watches, captivated. He’s been writing his book for almost six years, six years of transience, with brief bursts of connection and his beasts, he only feels lonely in moments like this. 

By the time the sun comes up they have a plan. It’s barebones and Newt’s pretty sure it’s going to end terribly but they have to try for Credence. 

What happens after that is anyone’s guess. 

Newt stands and stretches, he’s spent most of the evening cross-legged on Tina’s floor, pouring over a map she’s made of MACUSA’s headquarters. Tina flops boneless against the sofa behind her. She’s sat on the floor too, hair rumpled from the amount of times she’s run her hands through it. Queenie’s still asleep.

“I’ll make some pepperup,” Newt says, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. He’d love an hour of sleep. He hasn’t slept since arriving in New York but they can’t afford to wait, President Picquery will want to have Credence dealt with as soon as possible. 

He doesn’t want to think of it, of Credence being led down to the death potion, whoever happens to be leading him lifting their wand, pressing it to his temple, trying to find some happiness in his short life. He doesn’t want to think about Credence hunched over and terrified in a cell somewhere. He doesn’t want to think about the train station, about how frightened he’d looked, about - 

He shakes his head, turns in the direction of the case and behind him, Tina’s standing up  to follow him or maybe to wake Queenie but she doesn’t get a chance because there’s a series of loud cracks and President Picquery appears in the living room, flanked by four aurors. 

Newt draws his wand reflexively. Queenie jerks awake and scrambles to stand, getting tangled inelegantly in the blankets, “Madam President!” 

“Where is he?” The President demands. 

“Who?” Tina splutters. 

“The boy,” the President says. “The obscurus.”

“He’s not with you?” Newt asks. 

The President looks desperately between them and she must believe their bewilderment because she lowers her wand and shakes her head. “I knew this was a long shot. You three may be insane but you wouldn’t…” she sighs. “The boy has escaped. Grindelwald is with him.”

-

Tina comes with him to the docks. 

“You’ll find him,” she says, with the kind of certainty Newt doesn’t think he’s ever felt. 

This is the part where he’s supposed to kiss her. He stands there stupidly for a few moments because all he wants to do is sit her down and explain everything but that never goes well.

He promises he’ll find Credence. He promises her he’ll bring her a copy of his book. 

Maybe by then he’ll have figured out how to explain himself to people.


	4. Chapter 4

Before, when Credence was with the Second Salemers, Mr Grindelwald would keep their touches brief and feather-light. Hands on hands when he healed the wounds his ma had left, a hand on the shoulder, the back of his neck, foreheads pressed briefly together,  _ you can do this Credence, I know you can do this. _

Credence would lie awake at night, eyes squeezed shut, replaying those moments over and over, replaying the spread of warmth through his cold, cold body, replaying the feel of Mr Grindelwald’s warm breath against his skin. (And there were times, few and fleeting enough that Credence is half sure he dreamt them up, that Mr Grindelwald’s touches went far beyond that, times where Credence came to him, panicked and terrified, hitching sobs and open wounds on his palm and his back and his heart and all but fell to his knees,  _ I can’t do this, sir, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but I’m not - I can’t - you should find someone else…  _ Mr Grindelwald would hold him steady,  _ oh, Credence,  _ he’d say,  _ you’re so much stronger than you know.  _ He’d take Credence somewhere safe, somewhere warm.)

On the ship, the touches are more frequent but just as fleeting. 

He is forever touching Credence, a hand at the small of his back to steady him, an arm slung casually around his shoulders to guide him, heads bent low together, words whispered against the shell of Credence’s ear almost but then he is bending away and it is  _ dizzying.  _ (And that first night, that first day, Credence lies in his bunk staring at his arm, willing it to bruise where Mr Grindelwald’s fingers gripped him so that he would have  _ proof _ .) 

Credence wants more. He wants more than Mr Grindelwald reorienting his stance when he is holding Mr Grindelwald’s wand. He wants more than Mr Grindelwald stroking the nape of his neck as he passes, squeezing his arm (he wants Mr Grindelwald to take away this  _ thing _ he has crawling under his skin, this chasm in his chest that threatens to swallow him up, he wants Mr Grindelwald to soothe away his dreams of a black abyss, splitting his bones and his flesh, tearing him apart - He wants  _ Mr Grindelwald _ to tear him apart - to hold him down and - )

But he does not know how to ask for that (and it is wrong. It is so, so wrong. It makes his skin crawl and his Ma’s voice echo in his head, he recites bible passages about sin and hellfire in his mind as he lies awake, back to the cabin, willing these desires to  _ leave him.  _

But they do not. 

They grow. They grow even as Credence tries to push them down, tries to shutter them away from himself. 

They grow until Credence finds himself breaking a jar so that Mr Grindelwald will tut and take Credence’s hand in his, smoothing away the slick blood and knitting the skin together neatly, so that not even a scar remains. 

_ Good as new,  _ he says, turning Credence’s hand over in his.  _ You must be more careful, Credence.  _

_ You must be more careful. ) _

-

Mr Grindelwald wears Mr Graves face.

At first, Credence slips up, stumbles over Mr Grindelwald’s name and blusters out apologies as Mr Grindelwald smiles and tells him it’s alright. He will not be able to call him Mr Grindelwald when they land, anyway but it does not feel  _ right  _ to use that name. Not now he knows the truth.

“How do you do it?” he asks. He is watching Mr Grindelwald rummage through his bag from his bunk. Hands folded neatly in his lap. He does not know what to do with himself when Mr Grindelwald is not directing him so he finds himself sat here often, watching as Grindelwald goes about his business or staring at the books Mr Grindelwald has handed him. (Credence cannot read well but he does not want trouble Mr Grindelwald with this fact.)  “Change your face, sir? Is it a potion?” 

Mr Grindelwald smiles, “Clever boy.” He draws a flask out of the pocket of his coat and hands it to Credence. Credence stares at it for a few moments, looking back to Mr Grindelwald for instruction. 

A brief flicker of annoyance passes across Mr Grindelwald's face and anxiety rises in Credence’s throat. He braces himself out of habit, when his Ma got that look it never led to anything good. (The first time it happened Credence’s hands went to his belt before he’d even realised what he was doing,  _ I’m sorry, Mr Graves - Mr Grindelwald, I’m sorry -  _

Mr Grindelwald had caught Credence’s hands, held them still,  _ Credence, don’t. I’m not going to hurt you. _

But he is getting annoyed with Credence’s meekness, with his uncertainty, with his fear and Credence does not know what he is supposed to do.)

He crosses the cabin and joins Credence on the bed, taking the flask back and unscrewing the lid, he offers it back to Credence and Credence leans forwards, peering at the dregs of a bitter smelling liquid. He wrinkles his nose and Mr Grindelwald smiles. “It’s called polyjuice potion,” he says, screwing the cap back on. “It’s very difficult to brew.”

“And it can make you look different?”

Mr Grindelwald nods, “Sort of. It allows you to take on the appearance of someone else.”

Credence frowns, “So, Mr Graves is…” He is studying Mr Grindelwald’s stolen face carefully, his hands are twitching, fingers itching to reach out and test the skin. He knows there is no flaw to be found there, that skin feels just as real as Credence’s own but it is still difficult to accept. “Mr Graves is…”

“A real person,” Mr Grindelwald finishes for him. “Yes.” He screws the cap back on the flask and stows it back in his jacket pocket. “Why do you ask?” 

There’s a challenge in his gaze, a warning perhaps, something dark broiling under the surface that has Credence losing his nerve and looking  down at his hands. “I…” he mumbles. “I think… I think I would like to be someone else for a while.”

Mr Grindelwald tuts and Credence hears him shift. He closes his eyes, still expecting a slap, what he gets instead is Mr Grindelwald fingers cupping his face, turning it back towards him gently. “Oh, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says. “Why on earth would you want that?”

It takes Credence a few tries to get his words out, so distracted he is by Mr Grindelwald’s gentle touch. “I - I’m - ”  _ Dirty. Broken. Filthy. Wrong. _

_ Freak.  _

“I think I’m - I’m - ”

Mr Grindelwald shushes him. His other hand has come up to curl around the nape of Credence’s neck. “Credence, you’re perfect just the way you are.”

Something snaps deep inside Credence’s chest and he finds himself pitching forwards. Mr Grindelwald catches him with ease, holding Credence against his chest, rubbing soothing circles into Credence’s back. (Credence imagines he can feel the raised welts that dot his back through the thin woolen jumper he’s wearing, a reminder of how filthy he is. How damaged.) Credence’s hands are on Mr Grindelwald’s chest, curled into fists, he wants to open them, to spread his palms and press into the warmth (to undo the buttons of his shirt and touch him skin to skin.)

He’s pressed himself as close as he can, tucked his head under Mr Grindelwald’s chin, curled his knees up to his chest so he’s half lying on Mr Grindelwald and all the while he’s mumbling, “I’m sorry,  _ I’m sorry _ , I’m sorry, I’m  _ sorry _ \- ”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says and it might be just because Credence’s head is curled against his chest but his voice sounds strained  slightly, like it’s been pulled tight, ready to snap. 

Credence thinks he should pull back but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so  _ secure. _

He thinks he’s imagining it the first time Mr Grindelwald’s hand swipes low, fingers brushing the bare skin where Credence’s jumper has ridden up above his trousers. The second time his fingers dip lower, below Credence’s waistband, Credence goes rigid.

“ _ Credence _ .” Mr Grindelwald’s voice is low, whispered across Credence’s hair. It’s growing out where his Ma used to keep it short. His fingers swipe low again but this time they linger, warm against his skin. So warm. Then they push lower.

-

Later, Credence lies on the bunk, moonlight on his skin.

There are bruises this time, on the column of his throat and at his hips. His knuckles where he bit down to keep himself from crying out as Mr Grindelwald took him apart and built him back up again. 

Mr Grindelwald has left to wander the ship as he often does when he thinks Credence is sleeping. 

Credence wonders whether Mr Grindelwald will pretend this didn’t happen in the morning, as he did before. He presses his own finger tips into the marks on his hips, the bite of pain is his proof. 

His Ma would have flayed his skin off of his bones if she saw him like this. 

He jumps when the cabin door swings open, Mr Grindelwald stepping in. He pauses when he notices Credence watching him, “You’re awake. You didn’t need to wait up for me, you know.”

“I didn’t want you to leave,”  Credence says, quietly.

He can’t quite make out Mr Grindelwald’s expression in the halflight but he thinks there is a faint smile on his face. He shrugs off his coat and kicks off his shoes as he crosses to the bunk. He doesn’t say:  _ I won’t leave,  _ as he sits down. Instead he says, “We’re almost to land, in the morning we should be able to see Europe. Wouldn’t you like to see that?” He puts a hand on Credence’s hip. Tight. Possessive.

Credence nods. “What will we do there?” he asks.

“Well, first, we’ll teach you how to control your powers. Just like I promised.”

Credence nods again. He is trying to imagine Europe, a place where no one knows him, where no one knows of the Second Salemers or his destruction or his  _ murders  _ \- “What do you think happened to Modesty?” he hears himself ask. “She saw - She saw what I did to Ma and then again at her house. What do you think happened to her?”

Mr Grindelwald removes his hand, he sucks in a breath. He is disappointed, Credence knows but he can’t help but worry, he can’t help but think of Modesty alone in that house as he lost control. 

(And another memory rises like bile in his throat, hot and acrid,  _ there is nothing special about you,  _ but he swallows it back down. Tells himself Mr Grindelwald only said that because he knew Credence needed a push. He was trying to help even then, even with his cruel words.)

Credence grabs Mr Grindelwald’s wrist before the touch is lost, “Please, don’t,” he says, followed quickly by, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have - ” He lets go of Mr Grindelwald quickly.

Mr Grindelwald studies him for a few moments before he reaches out again, strokes a hand through Credence’s hair. “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving,” he says gently. He starts unbuttoning his shirt and wriggles out of his trousers. When he’s done he looks at Credence and it takes Credence a few moments to realise what he’s asking. He shuffles backwards on the bunk and Mr Grindelwald lies down beside him.

“Remember, Credence,” he says. “When we land in Le Havre you must not use my real name.”

“I won’t, sir,” Credence promises.

Mr Grindelwald yawns. “I suppose I may have to find a new one. A new face, too.”

“I like this one,” Credence says, before he can stop himself. Behind him, Mr Grindelwald laughs, his chest is pressed to Credence’s back and Credence feels the rumbles. 

“I will bare that in mind,” he promises.

Credence bites his lip. “Sir, before you said you would explain what it is you did that meant…. That drove you into hiding.”

Mr Grindelwald sighs and Credence scrambles to apologise, “I didn’t mean, you don’t need to - I was only - ”

“No,” Mr Grindelwald says. “No, it’s only right that you know. Most of the Wizarding World believes that magic should be kept a secret from the Muggles, they hide themselves away behind lies and illusions and charms. But there are those of us who believe that isn’t the best way of doing things, after all, look at what that secrecy does to muggles who know the truth. It drives the mad because no one will believe them.”

“Like my Ma,” Credence says, mouth dry.

“Yes, Credence, like your Ma. And those muggles grow to fear magic,  _ attack  _ people with magic, try to convince them that their powers are wrong or the work of some devil.”

_ Like me,  _ Credence thinks.

Mr Grindelwald rubs his arm, gently.

“No. There is a better way to do this, a better world where humans and muggles live in harmony with each other. That is what I am trying to create.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Credence says.

“No,” Grindelwald says. “It doesn’t. But not everyone agrees with me, unfortunately.”

“Couldn’t you just tell them?” Credence asks. He knows it’s a stupid question as soon as the words are out of his mouth but it’s too late to take it back.

“Ah, if only it were that simple, Credence. But there are charms, you see, charms that can be used to make muggles forget.”

“But if you showed enough people - ”

“Half the city saw what happened in New York,” Grindelwald says, he sounds incensed. “And yet, no one remembers. They find a way, Credence. They always find a way.”

“So what are you going to do?” Credence asks.

Grindelwald gives a huff of laughter and presses a dry kiss to the back of Credence’s neck. “All in good time, Credence,” he says. “All in good time.”

-

Le Havre is just as crowded as New York, Credence notes as he steps off the ship behind Mr Grindelwald. He stills when his feet hit dry land for the first time in a fortnight and he glances about the port, at the bustle of everyday life, the people coming home and the people leaving once more.

“Come along, boy,” Grindelwald calls sharply. 

Credence hurries to catch up with him, “Sorry, sir.”

“We’ve a long way to go yet,” Grindelwald says and Credence half hopes he will put a hand on Credence’s arm or back or neck and guide him along, through the crowds, to the railway station, to wherever they are going but he doesn’t, he stalks off into the crowd without another word and after a moment, Credence trails behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://callicokitten.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

They are in France but a few days before Mr Grindelwald starts leaving. 

They are staying in a farmhouse far outside of Paris. From the outside it looked a state, the roof had caved in, the windows were blown out, there was a spray of dark bullet holes along the front wall. It had been years since the war, Credence had been surprised the countryside still bore the scars. His mama had forbade them from discussing the conflict as it was happening, dismissing it as God’s righteous wrath, the European’s punishment for the mixing of bloodlines between those with magic and those without it, between different races, but Credence had seen pictures in newspapers, Credence had heard conversations on the street.

They had walked from the city, Mr Grindelwald not wanting to risk the use of magic in the open. When they reached the farmhouse, Credence had stopped, staring blankly at it. 

“Come on, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald had said. It had begun to rain by then, thick heavy drops falling steadily as they walked. “We must get out of this rain.”

“But it’s -” Credence had begun, he’d caught himself before finishing, biting down on his bottom lip. 

Mr Grindelwald had snorted, gestured for Credence to come stand next to him. “Here,” he said, holding Credence by the shoulders and leaning close to him. (Credence hadn’t realised how cold he’d felt until Mr Grindelwald had  touched him.) “Look again. Look closer. I know you can do it.”

Credence had and after a few moments he had begun to realise the farmhouse was not, in fact, a wreck. 

“Good boy,” Mr Grindelwald had said.

It’s smaller than his Mama’s house but it’s warm, cosy. Mr Grindelwald lights fires in every grate with a flick of his wand, he leads Credence to the bathroom, draws him a scalding hot bath and dries his sopping clothes before directing him towards on of the two bedrooms. Credence wants to protest the separate bedrooms but he doesn’t want to risk it. His Ma’s voice still rings in his ears, telling him to be grateful, telling him that he does not deserve kindness and that any offered to him is out of the goodness of other’s hearts. 

He falls asleep quickly that first night. 

When he wakes Mr Grindelwald has already prepared breakfast. He spends the day teaching Credence a smattering of French and writing letters. Credence sits attentively beside him, does as he’s told. 

That night, Mr Grindelwald takes Credence into his bedroom. 

Credence wakes up alone.

He thinks at first that Mr Grindelwald is in the kitchen but when he pads down the wooden staircase he finds the ground floor empty. He swallows down the surge of panic that rises as he takes in the cold kettle, the cold stove. The bathroom too, is empty. As is the second bedroom, the attic, the garden, the shed. 

He must have gone into the city, Credence tells himself. He’ll be back soon. 

He sets about preparing breakfast and sits at the kitchen table, waiting. It’s midday before Credence gives in and eats, the eggs and toast long cold but still, there is no sign of Mr Grindelwald.

It is nightfall before Credence begins to truly panic. 

Mr Grindelwald must have left. He’s realised Credence useless. Wrong. Disgusting. 

He’s realised Credence is a freak. 

He squeezes his eyes shut.

(He’s realised Credence isn’t special, after all.)

He can feel the darkness start to seep out of him, pouring out of him as black ooze and he’s going to lose control. He’s going to - He’s  going to -

“Credence!”

Mr Grindelwald’s voice cuts through the crackle of magic.

Credence gasps. Mr Grindelwald’s hands are on him suddenly, holding him by the shoulders, gripping tightly. “ _ Credence, _ you can control this,” Mr Grindelwald says. 

“You -” Credence manages. “You were - ” 

“Come on, Credence,” Grindelwald is saying. “Come on, you can control this. I know you can.”

“You left,” Credence gasps. “I woke up and you were - you were gone - ”

“I know,” Grindelwald says. He’s rubbing Credence’s shoulders, “I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Credence but you have to  _ control  _ this.”  He pulls Credence to him, rubbing his back. “Come on, Credence. Come on. Do this for me.”

Credence lets himself slump forwards, he breathes deeply. In, out, in, out. He focuses on Mr Grindelwald, not the darkness inside him. Focuses on Mr Grindelwald’s hands. On the soothing circles he’s rubbing into Credence’s back.

He hefts a sigh. 

The darkness inside him is quiet. 

For a moment, there’s nothing in Credence’s head. He’s limp, Mr Grindelwald the only thing holding him up. His eyes are closed, his forehead pressed to the crook of Mr Grindelwald’s neck. His hands are on Credence’s back. It’ s nice. It’s safe. It’s warm. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, against the thick material Mr Grindelwald’s coat. “I’m sorry, I - ”

“You needn’t apologise, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says. “You should never be ashamed of your power, my boy. It is what makes you unique.”

“Please don’t leave again,” Credence finds himself saying. “Please don’t - I don’t think I can -”

“Oh, Credence,” Grindelwald says. He rubs Credence’s back, shushing him. “Don’t worry. If I have to leave again I’ll tell you. I promise, I promise.”

\---

It becomes the norm for Credence to wake up alone after that, in his own room, in Grindelwald’s, on the couch downstairs. There is always a note and vague information on where Grindelwald has gone and when he’ll be back. He leaves Credence delicate pastries and stacks of books on magic and history, he does not know how poorly Credence reads, Credence has yet to tell him. 

He spends his days pouring over the books regardless, reads what little he can, muddles through the rest using the illustrations or by sounding things out. (When he was younger, much younger, he would steal newspapers off the streets, books off park benches and bring them home to try and read them, stuffed under his jumper or shirt and kept under his bed. Mama caught him with them more than once. She beat him thoroughly for it.  _ Those are the devils word’s Credence! Don’t you understand? The devil’s words! _

He doesn’t like to think of his Ma, these days. It makes his palm sting with phantom-pain, it makes him want to curl in on himself and let the darkness win.)

He explores the little house, the gardens. There are herbs and vegetables growing there, his Ma had a little patch out back but Credence wasn’t allowed near it. She said his darkness, his filth, would ruin them. Mr Grindelwald lets him take care of the plants, shows him how to water them, how to prune them. He seems happy to do it and Credence likes the feeling of taking care of something, of nurturing it. 

He keeps hoping Mr Grindelwald will begin teaching him, will leave him with spells to practise and potions to brew. But - 

“You said you would teach me how to use my magic,” he says, sometimes, when Mr Grindelwald is in a good mood. “Can we start soon?”

“All in good time, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says, always. “All in good time.”

So Credence contents himself with his small garden and his books as best he can and Mr Grindelwald begins leaving for longer. First one night, then two. He is careful to ensure Credence has enough food and money for extra if he needs it, he walks Credence to the small village nearby and shows him the bakery, the small grocers but Credence cannot imagine making the journey, counting out unfamiliar coins, stumbling over the few words he knows. He remains in the cottage and it is during one of Mr Grindelwald’s trips away that he discovers Mr Grindelwald’s case.

He has seen it before, of course, Mr Grindelwald does not keep things from him. It is big and boxy and Mr Grindelwald uses it to keep his potion supplies and little odds and ends in. He had shown Credence everything it contained one rainy afternoon, talking him through the herbs and dried animal skins it contained. Credence had decided he would attempt a simple potion he had found in one of the books Mr Grindelwald had left him. From what he could tell it was a simple brew, meant as a warming charm.  (The cottage was never cold but Credence thought perhaps Mr Grindelwald could use it on his long journeys.)  

The ingredients, he thinks, are all in Grindelwald’s case but when he clicks it open it doesn’t look like it used to. 

Before there were racks of phials and bottles, a pestle and mortar, a bone-handled knife, now there is a cavernous expanse that looks to Credence almost like a staircase. 

He snaps the lid shut, opens it once more to find the same scene. 

Experimentally, he reaches down into the case. His fingertips meet wood, cool and smooth. He slides along that first step, expecting it to continue, expecting the staircase to be a trick of the light but his hand drops and Credence tips forwards, almost tumbling into the case.

He draws his hand back. 

There appears to be an entire world in Mr Grindelwald’s case.

Before he can truly process this, he hears a loud crack from the other room, Mr Grindelwald is back. He snaps the case shut and hurries to meet him.

It has been three days and Mr Grindelwald beams as Credence enters the room, “There you are,” he says, reaching out to stroke Credence’s cheek. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. Were you alright while I was gone?”

Credence nods.

\---

It is a few days before he risks investigating the case further. Mr Grindelwald has left again, a day this time he says (and before he goes he pins Credence to the mattress, sucks marks into the pale skin of Credence’s throat and Credence moans and begs and whimpers while Mr Grindelwald whispers,  _ good boy, such a good boy, aren’t you my good boy?  _ In Credence’s ear.)

Credence stands in front of the case for a long while before he flicks it open. He is half expecting the potion ingredients to be back but no, he is met once more with the staircase. He tests it out again first one arm and then two until finally, he sets the case onto the floor and steps inside.

The staircase leads down to a small corridor, four doors leading off of it. The hair on the back of Credence’s neck stands up. He shouldn’t be here, he knows. If Mr Grindelwald wanted him here, he would have shown him the case, the stairs but - 

The first few doors he tries open onto rooms full of books or potion ingredients, a bubbling cauldron inside one, a moving photograph of two men around Credence’s age, another of the same men and a young girl, a little older than Modesty. There are scrawled notes about the place but Credence has never been able to decipher Mr Grindelwald's spindly handwriting. 

The third door he tries is locked.

The fourth contains a man chained to a wall. 

The man’s head is bent to his chest. His clothes are threadbare and stained. The whole room bares a foul stench of sweat and blood and things Credence does not want to think of. 

The man’s eyes are closed. His skin his pale, but there are crimson-purple bruises under the manacles at his wrists and ankles. There is dirt and dried blood on his face.

For a moment, Credence is certain the man is dead but he becomes aware of the man’s chest rising and falling.

Credence stands very still, hardly daring to breathe but the man does not look up, does not startle. Little by little, as quietly as possible, Credence approaches. He is bent almost double, trying to see the man’s face as he sleeps.

He draws back when he sees it is Mr Grindelwald. 

_ No,  _ he thinks. It can’t be. Mr Grindelwald isn’t - 

Then he realises. This must be Mr Graves. The real Mr Graves. The man whose face Mr Grindelwald stole. 

Credence feels ill. 

Credence feels numb. 

Mr Grindelwald wouldn’t do this. He is kind, he is generous. He  _ saved  _ Credence. Why would a man like that keep someone chained up against their will without good reason? Why would - 

He has no more time to consider because above, far above, he hears Mr Grindelwald calling his name. He scrambles out of the room, ensuring he slams the door shut behind him and throws himself up the stairs, towards the light. He bursts out of the case just in time to see Mr Grindelwald enter the room.

A dark look passes across Mr Grindelwald’s face, “What were you doing in there?”

“I was - ” Credence begins, panting, “I was only - ”

Mr Grindelwald’s wand is in his hand. It could destroy Credence so easily, he thinks, unable to stop himself. “Speak quickly, boy,” Mr Grindelwald snaps.

“I was looking for ingredients,” Credence says. He drops his gaze, looks down at his shoes. “I found a simple potion, a warming draught, I thought I would - I thought I would make it for you, sir.”

He chances a glance up and sees Mr Grindelwald’s expression soften. He puts his wand in his pocket and nods, stepping towards Credence. Credence steps back automatically and Mr Grindelwald takes his arm, reorients him so that he faces the case.

“This object is charmed to serve many purposes,” Mr Grindelwald says. He reaches out to the key and draws it out, as he does so, several key holes spring into existence on the case. “You see,” he continues, sticking the key into one of the new keyholes and turning it. The case springs open to reveal the rows of phials and flasks. 

“O-oh,” Credence says.

Mr Grindelwald’s hand comes to rest at the small of Credence’s back, “So what was it you needed for this draught?”

-

Mr Grindelwald does not direct Credence to his bedroom that evening so Credence finds himself curled on his own bed in his own room, staring up at the ceiling. If he squints just right he can make out where illusion begins, can see the collapsed roof and the night sky above him. 

He thinks of Mr Graves - the original Mr Graves - alone in his cell and shivers. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the comments and support you guys, i've probably said it before but i'll say it again: i may not reply to everyone but they mean the world to me, they really do.

Newt spends much of the crossing to Europe in his case, much to the confusion of his fellow passengers. They are all, as far as he can tell, muggles so it seems simpler all round, really, that he spends as little time interacting them as possible. Aside from quick trips a breakfast and dinner, Newt spends his time in his shed, thumbing through books, searching for even the barest of mentions to obscurials. 

Before he left New York, President Piquery had given him copies, produced by rows and rows of charmed quills, of many volumes they had in their collection, records of witch trials, transcripts of sermons given by Puritan Ministers, accounts of slave children, tortured and locked up by their masters as witches. He reads about Abigail Williams and the other women killed in Salem, the case for an obscurial is thin there, most likely it was a simple case of hysteria that led to twenty deaths. Twenty innocent lives taken.

Newt has never much troubled himself with the goings on of witches and wizards. At school, History of Magic had only interested him when they were learning about things like the Warlock’s Convention of 1709 that banned the breeding of dragons or the history of werewolf-wizard liaison (which, incidentally was  _ appalling. _ ) He supposes he’d always known on some level about the persecution witches and wizards suffered before there were proper laws in place to prevent their detection but to read about so many occurrences, so many more than he could have imagined, it makes him ache inside. Makes him slam shut the heavy tome he’s reading from and sit with the mooncalves until he feels less wretched.

He writes to Tina, tells her all he’s learnt about obscurials during his journey, asks if she has learnt anything more. He writes to Albus Dumbledore whose sister was rumoured to be one too, begs for any hint of aid (but he knows already it is useless, he went to Dumbledore when he stumbled across his first obscurial in Sudan and got nothing.) If Dumbledore cannot help him find Credence he can at least help him find Grindelwald, after all, if there is anyone in the world who knows where Grindelwald may be, it is Albus Dumbledore. 

_ Professor Dumbledore,  _ he writes:

_ I know that you have made it clear that you do not wish to be involved in the capture of Gellert Grindelwald and while normally I would understand and accept this, things are different now. During my unexpected layover in New York I met a young man named Credence. He is an obscurial as I am certain you have heard from my brother or someone else at the ministry. Grindelwald has escaped MACUSA along with Credence. I am trying to find him, save him if I can.  _

_ Do you have any idea where he would go?  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Newt. _

_ P.s. Don’t tell my brother I’m chasing an obscurial, he’d only fret. _

_ P.P.S. Do you know why Grindelwald would even be interested in someone like Credence? _

He waits until it’s very late at night to creep up to the deck, owls on his shoulders, and send them off. He watches them climb into the stars until he can’t make them out against the inky-blue anymore and Pickett starts complaining about the cold. 

-

Paris always makes him think of Leta.

When they were at Hogwarts together they’d spend hours huddled together in the library or the Room of Requirement making grand plans of escape. Leta always talked about Paris, a fabled land of freedom where she could escape her family and her family’s name because in Paris, it wasn’t about your blood status and the hefty weight that came with that, it was about your skill, you finesse. 

He doesn’t know whether Leta every made it to Paris, she stopped writing back to him long before she left Hogwarts. 

He finds a quiet place to apparate when he reaches Le Havre, the last thing he needs is another muggle to get attached to and lose in the space of two days or so, and travels to a tavern he’s stayed at before. He pays for the room and sits down on the bed for a few minutes before leaping up and heading out the door, taking his case with him.

In Paris, the wizarding world and the muggle world is much more blended. People are careful, to be sure, using glamours on shopfronts to stop curious muggles wandering into apothecaries and wand shops and the like. Magical cafes and taverns sit side by side with muggle ones, with code words and hidden menus and secret rooms. There are street magicians with actual talents, wizards working in the film scene and far less concern about wizard-muggle relationships. 

If Queenie and Jacob had met in Paris, things would have gone very differently, Newt thinks.

He passes a store bearing the symbol of the deathly hallows and pauses. On the surface, it looks very much like an herb store, dried gillyweed and dittany hanging from racks, fanged geraniums in the window. Grindelwald has supporters in Europe, Newt knows. His brother and the Ministry at large are despairing about it but not everyone wants to live in secrecy and not everyone wants to share the world with muggles. Most of his ardent supporters are still locked up but there are many still out there, no one’s entirely sure how wide reaching Grindelwald’s network is.

He stares in at the shop owner for a few moments, debating whether it would be wise to stride in, wand raised and question them but he knows it wouldn’t be wise and America might be a little too far for his brother to apparate to but Paris certainly isn’t. 

He ducks his head and keeps on walking, heading towards the magical creatures emporium. He’s running low on supplies.

-

Dumbledore’s reply arrives two days after Newt arrives in Paris, the niffler has escaped again and Newt’s spent no time looking for Credence and all the time looking for that pesky creature. (He finds it in The Louvre, looking very disappointed that there aren’t many shiny things for it to steal.)

Dumbledore replies:

_ Mr Scamander, _

_ I fear you may be in over your head, young man. I simply cannot fathom why you have decided to take it upon yourself to find Grindelwald knowing full well how dangerous he is. There are teams of trained aurors on his tail, aurors who have been working on this case for far longer than you have, Newton.  _

_ That being said, having had the distinct pleasure (?) of being your professor I know that nothing I say will dissuade you from this. As I have said before, I have no information on obscurials to pass on to you, my sister’s case was somewhat unique, as you well know.  I have enclosed a map of France and Germany with the places Grindelwald had mentioned to me and has been seen at previously. I am certain that all of these locations are being watched closely but it may help you, nonetheless.  _

_ With regards to your brother, the Ministry has kept close tabs on my communications since Grindelwald made his presence, and his connection to me, known so I’m afraid the kneazle may be out of the proverbial bag. _

_ Regards, _

_ Albus Dumbledore. _

The map is huge and varied and Newt spreads it out on the floor, enlarging it with a flick of his wand. There are a number of properties in and around Paris which Dumbledore has helpfully dated each one and provided a little description. 

There are rather a lot.

He looks up at Pickett and the Niffler, “If you only you were half as good at finding people as you are at finding trouble,” he mutters. 

__________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> newts chapters will get more dynamic when things get going, at the moment i'm kind of just using him to build a picture of the world credence is in
> 
> you can also read about my backstory for newt [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8653525) if you'd like


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote and rewrote this part a bunch and im still not happy with it
> 
> thanks for all the support ^_^

“If you have something to say, say it, boy,” Mr Grindelwald snaps. He does not look up from whatever it is he is writing but Credence is unsurprised that Mr Grindelwald is aware of his presence. 

Credence drops his gaze, “Your hair is blonde,” he says, to the floor. It has been happening steadily, pale yellow bleeding into the black-grey from the roots. 

Mr Grindelwald stands with a snarl. He reaches for his flask but it is empty, Credence knows. He had woken up in Mr Grindelwald’s bed, watched him raise the flask to his lips and swear under his breath in a language Credence didn’t understand. 

He throws the flask down when he’s reminded it’s empty and Credence jumps as it hits the wall. “I - ” he finds himself saying but he stops himself from apologising when Mr Grindelwald gives him a sharp look. His mouth works for a few moments silently before he says, “Can’t you - Can’t you make more?”

“I don’t have the ingredients,” he says, pacing. “I thought I had more.” His fury radiates off him in waves and Credence wants to hide from it, wants to find a corner to curl up in until the storm has passed. 

“You can buy some, can’t you?” he  asks, doubtfully.

“I can’t go out like this!” Mr Grindelwald yells, kicking at the desk. 

Credence jumps. Apologises. Apologises for apologising until Mr Grindelwald turns to him and says, “Credence,  _ stop. _ ” He sinks back down into his chair tiredly. 

Credence swallows. He has tried not to think of the man Mr Grindelwald has chained up in his case. It’s easier that way, he’s found. Those first few days, he spent racked with guilt and uncertainty but there is a reason Mr Grindelwald has him chained up there. There must be. 

Credence approaches Mr Grindelwald slowly, fidgeting with his hands as he does so. When he is close enough he reaches out, lays a hand on Mr Grindelwald’s shoulder feather-light. “How does it work?” he asks. “The potion?”

“It is very difficult to brew,” Mr Grindelwald answers. “It needs many rare and expensive ingredients.” He looks up at Credence, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. There are flecks of green now that Credence can make out against the brown. 

It makes him shudder.

He removes his hand from Mr Grindelwald’s shoulder, “I - I could go,” he says. “If - If you tell me where and what to buy I could - ”

Mr Grindelwald catches Credence’s wrists, holds it in both of his hands. “You would do that for me?” he asks. 

Credence reluctantly nods. 

-

Mr Grindelwald writes out what he needs in large, easy to read letters and folds the parchment neatly, sliding it into Credence’s left breast pocket. He’s told Credence the name of the store he’ll be visiting, “You won’t even need to speak to the cashier if you don’t want to, Credence,” he assures. “Just collect what you need and bring it up to the counter, alright?”

Credence nods. Mr Grindelwald smoothes down Credence’s shirt, making sure it’s tucked smartly into his trousers, the way Chastity used to to keep Ma from getting angry. He misses her suddenly, not Ma, Chastity, Modesty. The handful of other children that came and went in their home. Mr Grindelwald is rubbing Credence’s arms now, he smiles, his teeth are crooked. Mr Graves’ teeth are straight.

“There we are,” Mr Grindelwald says. “Now, I’m trusting you, Credence. Don’t forget where you’re going and remember, as soon as you need to leave, squeeze the pendant I gave you. It will bring you straight back to me.”

He apparates Credence to the outskirts of Paris, squeezes his arm and directs him to a Metro station and then he is gone and Credence is alone. There is a part of Credence that suddenly feels very exposed but Mr Grindelwald’s pendant is warm against his skin. All he has to do is squeeze it. 

He takes a breath and steadied himself. 

_ Don’t worry, Credence. I’ll be right here with you. _

On the metro he sits ramrod straight, repeats the station name over and over in his head. He has never been in a train before. His Ma never allowed it. 

He keeps his head down in the streets. It's easy to slip back into the boy he was in New York, the invisible one handing out leaflets. People never met his eye back then. Mostly, anyway. They took a leaflet or they did not, either way, Credence made no impression on their lives.

He is so rooted half a world away that he startles when the shopkeeper addresses him in guttural French. “English?” The man asks, when Credence simply stares back.

“A-American,” Credence stutters. 

The man surveys him as he cashes up Credence’s items. “American, huh?”

Credence nods.

“I always heard you Americans were a chatty bunch,” the man says. Then, “A bit young for brewing polyjuice aren't you?” And Credence hears the suspicion in his tone. 

“The man I work for,” he mumbles, by way of explanation. There’s a poster up behind the man’s head, a  _ wanted  _ poster, Mr Grindelwald’s face staring out at him. Mr Graves’ is just below it,  _ missing,  _ it reads.

His hand goes unconsciously to the pendant but he needs the ingredients - Mr Grindelwald needs the ingredients. 

“An apprentice, hm?” the man says, wrapping the ingredients in brown paper. “That’s good. A good profession. Too many young wizards leave school and do nothing further with their talents. My son, for instance. Graduates Beauxbatons top of his class and now what does he do? I’ll tell you what: nothing! Spends his days smoking and writing letters to a married girl who never looked his way twice!” The man tuts, shakes his head. “Such a waste. You keep at it, boy. Do great things.”

Credence nods, eyes darting to the door. 

“Eighty-four francs,” the man says.

-

He’s jerked back to Mr Grindelwald’s cottage, going to pieces and coming back together in a flash. For a moment, it’s like New York again, he’s been swallowed and dispersed into the ether but he’s knitted together again, landing in the living room and stumbling.

Mr Grindelwald catches him by the shoulders. “Did you get it? Did they have everything?”

“I - I -” It takes his mind a little while longer to catch up with what’s happening but once it does he shoves the wrapped ingredients into Mr Grindelwald’s arms. “Yes. They did, they - ”

But Mr Grindelwald is already spinning away from him, package in hand, “Excellent, excellent! Credence, you’re a marvel!” He tears it open, rummages through the contents. “Excellent,” he murmurs. “Excellent.”

“Mr Grindelwald, in the shop - ” Credence begins. “In the shop they had - they had a poster of you.”

Mr Grindelwald glances back at him briefly. “Well,  _ yes.  _ That’s why I’m in disguise, Credence.”  He says it very slowly, the way people in New York talked to him, like he was touched in the head. 

It stings.

“But - ” he starts but Mr Grindelwald cuts him off.

“Now, I’ve got a potion to brew.” He says, and vanishes into his case.

Credence is left staring at the empty space.

-

He wakes up warm, Mr Grindelwald curled around him, “My boy,” Mr Grindelwald says. “My special boy. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you properly yesterday.”

There is a full spread of fresh fruit for breakfast, most of which Credence has never tasted before. He likes orange juice off his fingers while Mr Grindelwald scrawls another letter and sips coffee. “I shall have to leave again for a while, Credence. Not too long. A day or so at most. You’ll be alright on your own, won’t you? There’s plenty of food.”

Credence wants to say no. As of late, Mr Grindelwald has been gone more than he has been present but he nods anyway. 

Mr Grindelwald beams. “Good boy.” He stands up, brushes a hand through Credence’s hair as he passes. His touch lingers, “Your hair is starting to grow out,” he observes. “Perhaps we can sort it out when I get back and I think, perhaps, we can begin your magic education at long last.”

Credence looks up, “You - You mean it?”

“Of course,” Mr Grindelwald says, he brushes Credence’s cheek gently. “That’s what I promised, isn’t it? I always keep my promises, Credence.”

-

He finds himself in Mr Grindelwald’s case, in front of Mr Graves’ cell. When he reaches for the handle, he half hopes it will be locked. It isn’t though, the door opens easily and there’s this burning feeling in Credence’s gut, this roiling. He knows he’s not supposed to be doing this, knows if Mr Grindelwald catches him he’ll be angry but - 

Mr Graves is much the same has he had been, head still bowed and limp. Credence nudges him experimentally with his foot.

Mr Graves comes awake in stages. His leg shifts first, automatically moving away where Credence touched him. Then he draws both knees up to his chest, shifts his head slightly and raises it, “Thought you’d gotten bored of me,” he spits before he looks up and sees Credence stand there.

He frowns. Exactly in the manner Mr Grindelwald does. “The fuck are you?” he asks, voice rough with disuse.

“I - ” Credence starts but he has no idea how to continue. He stares, dumbly, watching Mr Graves squint up at him. Mr Graves’ hair hangs in lank clumps over his forehead, “Oh,” he says, then he chuckles. “ _ Oh.  _ You’re his new boy, aren’t you?”

Credence frowns, “No - I -”

“Aw, you didn’t think you were the first, did you?” Mr Graves says, unkindly. “Wait. I know you, don’t I?”

“I - In New York - ” Credence stammers.

“Shit, you’re one of the Second Salemers, aren’t you? One of the Barebone brats.” 

Credence nods.

He runs a hand through his hair, a far away look in his eyes for a moment. “Goldstein never shut up about you lot. ” He shakes his head, like he’s shaking off the memory. “Wait, you said  _ in New York. _ Are we not in New York?”

Credence shakes his head, “France. We - We’re in France. Did you - Did you not know that?”

Mr Graves looks at him like he’s just said something incredibly stupid. “What? You think Grindelwald comes down here to  _ chat  _ with me?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” Credence mumbles.

Graves shakes his head, “It’s not your fault,” he mutters. He lowers his gaze, staring stonily at the wall opposite. When he shifts his manacles clink together. “France.  _ Fuck. _ ”

“How long have you been here?” Credence asks.

Mr Graves shrugs, “I’ve no idea.”

“Why does he keep you here?” he asks, when it becomes apparent Mr Graves isn’t about to expand on that. 

That earns him another sharp look, “For the potion -  _ Merlin,  _  do you know  _ anything _ , boy?”

“Mr Grindelwald is teaching me…”

Mr Graves snorts, “Of  _ course  _ he is. He’s really done a number on you, hasn’t he?”

Credence frowns, “Wh-What do you mean?”

But Mr Graves is shaking his head, “Doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Is he still using my face?” When Credence nods Mr Graves bares his teeth, lets out a hiss of anger. He looks hopeless. Hopeless and angry.

“People are looking for you,” Credence says, to try and lift his spirits. 

“Oh, I bet they are if we’re in France.” He looks back up at Credence, “What happened in New York? Did he find what he was looking for?”

Credence looks back towards the door, Mr Grindelwald could be back at any moment. “I don’t know if - ”

“Please,” Mr Graves says.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Mr Graves is quiet as he listens to Credence’s story and Credence tries to piece together his thoughts. There must be a reason beyond the obvious that Mr Grindelwald has Mr Graves chained in here. It is for the greater good, for his goal of changing the world, whatever that may be and really, there is no reason for Credence to feel  _ sympathy  _ for this man. 

_ Goldstein never shut up about you lot,  _ he had said. Like Credence and his family were an annoyance and Credence remembers that day with frightening clarity, that woman with hard brown eyes, her face set with determination, coming across his Ma hitting him. He’d seen her before, dogging them in the streets as they handed out leaflets. She’d tried to speak to Modesty first, waiting until Ma’s back was turned to kneel down before his sister and talk in hushed tones. 

“What did she say to you?” Credence had asked later.

“She asked about Ma, if she was treating us right.”

“What did you say?”

Modesty had raised on shoulder in a shrug, her eyes very far away. “Said I didn’t know any better.”

It was Chastity’s turn next and Ma had caught her that time, hollering at her, shaming her in front of the crowds that had gathered to watch, yelling that she was a witch, that she was evil, that she was attempting to lure her children away and Mr Graves - Mr Grindelwald -  _ one of them _ \- had appeared at the woman’s side, taken her by the elbow and yanked her away. 

Mr Graves hadn’t looked back at them. Not until after the woman attacked Ma. 

They had been outside the house. Credence had gotten home late. He’d lost himself in the city, in walking, ended up having to walk miles back and miss dinner. Ma had been furious. She’d made stew, had waited up for him, had meant for him to scrub the floors before bed and he couldn’t very well do that  _ now  _ at past  _ midnight _ , he had to be up at the crack of dawn to copy out more leaflets.

So she’d yelled, taken Credence out back and whipped him, on his palm, on his back, once in her fury across his chest and he’d deserved it, no matter what Mr Grindelwald whispered late at night as he ran his fingers across the raised puckered scars.

Credence had been on his knees, begging, “Please, Mama, I’ll be good - I won’t be late again - I promise - I  _ promise - _ ”

Ma wouldn’t have killed him, he’s pretty sure.

The woman had come upon them then and Credence doesn’t know if she’d been watching the whole time or if it had just been happenstance but there had been a bolt of red light and his Ma had been on the ground. 

It had been a blur.

Credence had stood; shaking, bleeding and the woman had her hands up, had been talking in a low soothing voice, had been reaching out to him, “It’s alright,” she’d been saying. “I won’t hurt you, I’m sorry, I know you’re frightened but -” Credence had backed away, covered his face with his hands to make everything go away, to make everything  _ stop _ .  And Ma had been groaning on the ground and everything seemed to be happening very fast until Mr Graves -  _ Mr Grindelwald  _ \- had arrived and taken Credence’s wrists gently, pulled them away from his face and spoken in gentle, soothing tones.

(“He should have obliviated you,” Mr Graves says when Credence back tracks to that evening. 

“He said he wanted me to remember, he wanted me to remember there were people who would help.”)

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Mr Graves says, very carefully when Credence is finished talking. He glances towards the door and then looks back up at Credence. “Are you going to help me?” he asks, finally.

Credence swallows. “I don’t know.”

Mr Graves nods, his expression is blank. “You better get back, then. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

-

When Mr Grindelwald gets back he’s in high spirits, Credence has spent the rest of his absence fretting about Mr Graves, chained up in the case. He has no idea whether the man is being fed. He must be, somehow, Mr Grindelwald must have a system or he would have died long ago. 

He shudders at that thought.

Once, when he was young and it was just him and Ma and Chastity, they had gone on a pilgrimage to Salem and left Credence behind, locked in the bedroom with a bucket of water and a meagre amount of food. They had been gone a week or so, got back before Credence got too weak to move but -

He knows what it’s like to be kept in a very small room.

“Cheer up, Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says, when he gets back, cupping Credence’s cheek as he passes. 

He keeps his promise, hands Credence a toy wand and starts teaching him basic spells. He says he doesn’t want to risk giving Credence a new wand before he can muster some semblance of control. It seems reasonable, so Credence spends the next few days learning spells and wand movement and stances.

It becomes  _ easier  _ between them, as though something has shifted that Credence cannot name. Mr Grindelwald seems _ lighter _ , he smiles more, he laughs or perhaps it’s Credence who has changed. There’s less suffocating fear, less gnawing doubt about whether Mr Grindelwald really intends to teach him things. Maybe it’s knowing about Mr Graves, knowing that Mr Grindelwald has no idea Credence has stumbled upon his prisoner. It’s the knowledge that he could let Mr Graves go if he chose to but  _ won’t.  _

It feels good. Like he’s protecting Mr Grindelwald somehow.

He doesn’t ask about Mr Graves until Mr Grindelwald takes him into the case to prepare more of his potion. The door to Mr Graves’ cell is shut and Credence has thought about telling Mr Grindelwald that he knows, has had it on the tip of his tongue over dinner and late at night and on occasional walks but there has always been something holding him back.

“What was he like?” he asks, quietly as Mr Grindelwald explains the dangers of the potion, of accidentally dropping in the hair of two people or of animals. “Mr Graves, I mean.”

Mr Grindelwald glances at him over the top of the cauldron and Credence drops his gaze automatically. “Well, you know he was an auror and what that meant for him. I only knew him very briefly, you understand, but he seemed a brash, arrogant man. Very intelligent and good with people if he wanted to be. Surprisingly well connected for a man of his demeanor.”

“Is that why you picked him?” Credence asks.

Mr Grindelwald smiles as he stirs in the boomslang skin, “It certainly helped.”

“And no one noticed?” Credence asks, after a beat.

“No. Not one for personal relationships, our Mr Graves, I’m afraid and as you know, my dear, I can be very persuasive.”

Credence nods. That must be lonely, he thinks. Modesty and Chastity would have noticed if he’d been replaced, he thinks. Hopes. 

“Could you fetch me the lacewing flies? They’re just on that table there.”

Credence stands and crosses the room, rummaging through the glass jars he finds there and picking out the lacewings. The jar is made of thick green glass and Credence holds it up to the lantern, peering in at the still bugs, a tangle of limb and delicate wings. Mr Grindelwald isn’t looking at him, he’s concentrating on the bubbling liquid he’s stirring. 

“Where do you go?” Credence asks, as he walks back across to the cauldron. “When you leave.”

Mr Grindelwald sets down the heavy iron spoon. “I suppose you should be told,” he says, quietly, like he’s not quite talking to Credence. “Yes. Yes, it may be for the best. But first, the lacewings.” He holds out his hand for the jar and Credence passes it across. Mr Grindelwald extracts a few and drops them into the liquid, giving it a final stir. He stands, smiles at Credence and says, “Follow me.”

He leads Credence out of the room and into another with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Mr Grindelwald searches the shelves and pulls out a small, battered old book that he lays atop the writing desk in the centre of the room. He beckons Credence over. “Now, you won’t be able to read this,” he says, as Credence reaches him. “It’s in my mother tongue.”

It looks to be a children’s book, once brightly coloured, now faded and well worn. He can’t read the text on the cover but the symbol in the centre is recognisable. He reaches out, brushes his fingers across it, “This is…”

Mr Grindelwald smiles, he reaches across to Credence and snags the chord on the pendant, lifting it up and over Credence’s shirt so that it swings free. “Yes. It is the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.”

“What are they?”

Mr Grindelwald opens the book, flicks through to a page bearing illustrations: a wand haloed in gold, a shimmering piece of fabric, a stone bleeding black. “Three very powerful magical objects. The Elder Wand, The Resurrection Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility. I’m trying to find them.”

Credence frowns, “Why?”

“I told you that I was tired of hiding, didn’t I?” He says, with a wicked smile. “I have plans, Credence.  _ Such _ plans. Just think of the things we could do if we didn’t have to hide. Just  _ think _ .”

-

Mr Grindelwald promises Credence a wand on his return the next time he leaves though he’s quick to point out that Credence probably has no need for one. He’s powerful enough for wandless magic, Mr Grindelwald assures, but a wand will lend him some control.

“Can I not come with you?” he asks, blurting it out before Mr Grindelwald leaves. He chastises himself when Mr Grindelwald looks across at him. “Sorry, sir, I only meant -  ”

“ _ Credence _ ,” Mr Grindelwald says, with a roll of his eyes. “You really must stop trembling. How many times must I tell you that you needn’t apologise for asking questions. And  _ don’t _ apologise for apologising.”

Credence ducks his head, cheeks colouring.

“But no, not this time. Soon though,” Mr Grindelwald assures. “I wouldn’t want to risk you getting hurt.”

Credence wastes no time in going down to Mr Graves’ cell once Mr Grindelwald has left. He finds the man awake this time, lounging against the wall, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He looks up when Credence comes in with a slight quirk of his eyebrows. “His majesty has left then, I take it?” he asks.

Credence inclines his head in a nod. 

Mr Graves nods. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Credence?”

Credence considers. He’s not entirely sure why he’s here. When Mr Grindelwald is around, he hardly spares a thought to Mr Graves. It’s easy to forget about him, locked away in the case. It’s only when Credence is alone that his thoughts drift to the cell. 

_ Are you going to help me?  _ Mr Graves had asked.

_ I don’t know.  _

“I thought you might be lonely,” he says, eventually.

Mr Graves raises an eyebrow. “Did you, now? Well, I suppose that’s a word for it.”

Credence takes a few steps towards him. There’s an open gash on his left cheek, along the bone. It looks fresh. 

“Did he do that?” Credence finds himself asking.

Mr Graves snorts, “Who else would do it?”

Credence swallows. 

“You’re thinking I must have done something wrong,” Mr Graves says, looking up at Credence with something akin to pity in his eyes. “That that’s the only reason your Mr Grindelwald would be so cruel.” He shakes his head and the pity is gone.

“Did you?” Credence asks.

Mr Graves shakes his head with a humourless smile but he doesn’t respond so Credence hovers, trying to imagine the hundreds of scenarios that could have led Mr Grindelwald to strike him. 

“Are you just going to stand there staring?” Mr Graves asks, a rough edge to his words. It’s not quite anger or annoyance.

“Mr Grindelwald says you didn’t have anyone back in New York.”

Mr Graves peers at him curiously for a few moments, “Mr Grindelwald said - Oh. You’re trying to figure out if you’re going to help me.”

“No,” Credence says, automatically though maybe that’s a little true.

Mr Graves shifts and looks away, staring bleakly at the wall. “Is that how you’ll measure my worth then, boy? By the amount of people who’ll miss me?”

“I told you, I’m not - ” Credence begins.

“Spare me,” Mr Graves snaps. “You’re a terrible liar and as it happens, no, I didn’t really have anyone in New York. I had my work, I had my team. That’s all I needed.”

“What about that woman?”

“Goldstein?” He gives a huff of laughter. “No. Not really my type. Why? Mr Grindelwald didn’t - ”

“No,” Credence cuts him off quickly, thinking of gentle touches in alleyways and behind his Ma’s house. “No. He didn’t.”

There’s silence then, Mr Graves staring off into the middle distance, Credence watching him closely. It’s wrong that he’s being kept here but - but -

“Were you good at your job?”

Mr Graves looks surprised at that. “Well, I was the President’s right hand,” he says, after a beat. “So what do you think?”

“And you helped people? You kept them safe?”

“I did what I could,” Graves says stiffly.

“Did you fight in the war?”

Graves snorts, “Did I  _ fuck _ . Why should I care about Europeans and their problems? They were doing fine on their own anyway.” He looks up at Credence shaking his head, “Oh, I see, that’s made me a coward in your eyes, has it? Well, I’ve news for you: most American wizards were against the war. It was a muggle conflict with muggle fighters. We kept an eye out, to be sure but no. No I did not fight.”

“Mr Grindelwald thinks wizards and muggles should live together,” Credence says, quietly.

“Is that what he’s told you?” Mr Graves shakes his head again. “Look, kid, there’s a reason your man has to hide his face. There’s a reason he’s Undesirable Number One.”

Credence thinks back to the Wanted poster:  _ murder _ , it said,  _ theft, mayhem and inciting violence.  _

“He’s been good to me,” Credence says.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Credence looks down at the floor, thinking. His left hand still stings from Ma’s punishments even though the scars are long gone. “Did you know?” he asks, eventually. 

Graves frowns, “Know what?”

“About - About my Ma. About what she was - what she was doing to us.”

Graves sighs, glancing up at Credence with a pained expression. “We didn’t know you had magic,” is all he says. 

-

Later that evening, Credence sits on his bed, thinking. 

And thinking.

And  _ thinking. _

He goes back to Mr Graves in the morning because even though there’s hurt still bright and stinging it feels wrong not to. Mr Graves looks surprised when Credence enters his cell, “I didn’t think you’d be back,” he says.

Credence doesn’t respond, he stays by the door, leaning against and studying the man before him. “I can’t help you,” he says, decisively. 

A flicker of something passes across Mr Grave’s face, his expression tightens. “Credence,” he says, in a very firm tone. “Credence, I know you’ve not been treated well before but - ”

“Mr Grindelwald has been good to me, Mr Graves,” Credence interrupts. “He - He helped me when no one else would and you - you did nothing.”

“ _ Credence, _ ” Graves says but Credence is already turning, opening the door and walking out. 

“Credence!” Mr Graves shouts after him.

-

He is tending to the garden when Mr Grindelwald returns, he hears the crack from the cottage and turns. Mr Grindelwald will realise quickly he’s not inside and come and find him, Credence goes back to dead-heading until he hears the backdoor swing open. 

Mr Grindelwald grabs him roughly by the arm before Credence can say anything, “Get inside,” he hisses. “ _ Quickly. _ ”

He lets Credence go in the kitchen and Credence stumbles away. “Wh - What happened?”

Mr Grindelwald is pacing, “It’s not safe here anymore,” he says, darkly. “They’ve finally caught on to this,” he gestures to his face and Credence frowns.

“But - I thought you knew…” he mumbles.

“I knew they would figure it out eventually,” Mr Grindelwald says, distractedly. “I just thought we’d have more time. MACUSA and the European councils don’t get on, I hoped they would be reluctant to share information.”

“But the Wanted poster,” Credence says.

Mr Grindelwald stops pacing, “The poster?” he repeats.

“Y-yes,” Credence says, “I- In the shop. I told you, it had - it had - ”

Mr Grindelwald speaks his next words very slowly, enunciating each word carefully. “You said it had my picture on it, Credence.”

Credence finds himself backing away until he hits the counter, reaching behind him to grip it to keep himself steady. “Y-yes,” he says, gaze fixed on the floor. “A- a - and Mr Graves’. I - I thought I told you - I -”

He hears the slap before he feels it.

A sharp crack that has his head snapping to the side, has a coppery tang spreading throughout his mouth. 

Ma had never hit him that hard. 

His hand shakes as he reaches up to touch his cheek, warm and stinging and that’s when the pain kicks in. He stares at Mr Grindelwald, eyes wide, horrified. “I - I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I thought I - ”

“How dare you not tell me!” Mr Grindelwald yells. “How  _ dare  _ you!? After all that I’ve done you ungrateful little - ” he cuts himself off, mouth twisting unpleasantly. “‘I’ll deal with you later,” he growls and this time, when he lurches towards Credence he grips him by the collar rather than the arm and yanks through the cottage to the case.

“Get in,” he snarls, all but shoving Credence down the stairs. 

He pulls out his wand as he drags Credence down the corridor, waves his wand at a gap in the wall and a door appears. It opens with another flick and before Credence can begin to process what’s happening, he’s being thrown into a dark room and sound of a heavy lock clicking is ringing in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the comments


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is relatively short and i'm sorry for that because i probably won't be updating this fic again until the new year. i'd originally hoped to have it done and dusted by christmas but it's christmas in like five days holy shit you guys?
> 
> anyway, thank you for your comments, kudos and general support
> 
> feel free to come kick me on [tumblr](http://callicokitten.tumblr.com/) if i let this sit for too long.

_ Tina,  _ Newt writes,

_ There’s a man in the apothecary here that thinks he’s seen Credence. He was buying the ingredients for polyjuice. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.  He might still be using Graves’ likeness, if he is we’ll be able to find him easily, if he’s not well… _

_ Newt. _

  1. _Thank Queenie for the Challah. It was lovely._



-

_ Tina,  _

_ He’s still using Graves likeness! As of yesterday, anyway. There’ve been sightings of him all over Paris. I think I’m narrowing down where he is. _

_ Yours,  _

_ Newt. _

_ P.S I’m sorry I didn’t ask how you were I was just so excited. _

_ P.P.S How are you? _

_ - _

_ Tina, _

_ I have him tracked to a cottage outside of Paris.  _

_ I think this could be it. _

_ Yours,  _

_ Newt. _

_ - _

The room is dark. 

Blacker than the blackest black. Black as pitch. 

The only sound is his own laboured breathing..

His cheek stings.

He presses himself against a wall to feel real, to feel  _ solid,  _ digs his nails into his thigh to keep himself grounded because - 

_ Because- _

In New York it would always start like this:

He would be in bed, lying on the floor curled up and shaking and there would be something, some phrase, some incident, rattling about in his brain. Credence would take deep breaths, close his eyes against it, push it down, down,  _ down - _

_ Freak.  _

And then - 

And then - 

He could feel it coming. Could feel himself shaking  _ apart. _

Now, he tries desperately to keep himself together, to keep himself grounded.

Doesn’t think of New York. Doesn’t think of his Ma. Doesn’t think of Mr Grindelwald. 

Doesn’t think about the sound Mr Grindelwald’s hand made when it connected with his cheek.

Doesn’t think about his head snapping to the side.

Doesn’t think about the heat.

The pain.

The gasping desperation rising in his chest to suffocate because - 

_ Because - _

It’s so much. It’s so much. It’s  _ so  _ much - 

And then, from far away he hears a voice.

“Credence?” someone calls, distant and muffled. “Credence, is that you?”

It’s like New York all over again, like being in that cell, desperate and alone. 

Maybe he never left.

Maybe he dreamt that up.

Maybe this is it. Execution. 

“Credence?” comes the voice, again.

Credence moans, puts his hands over his ears and ducks his head, pressing it to his knees. “No,” he whimpers. “Please go, please leave me be.” He just wants everything to stop - just to  _ stop  _ so he doesn’t have to - 

“Credence?! Answer me, dammit!”

“No,” he whispers, “There’s no one here. No one here, at all.”

Someone called the police on Ma once. Credence was home alone when they came.

_ If the police come here and I’m not around don’t you dare answer the door, children,  _ Ma had said.  _ If they come here and find you alone they will take you away from me to the workhouses and what’ll happen then?  _

She’d told them horror stories.

Credence had huddled in the crawlspace while the police knocked, whimpering with fear.

But Ma was dead. 

He’d taken her away from his sisters.

“Grindelwald!?” the voice calls. “Grindelwald, I swear to Merlin, Mordred and Morgana if you’ve hurt that kid I’ll make you  _ pay _ ! For the love of -  _ Credence _ ! Come on, kid, I know you’re out there somewhere!”

Mr Graves, Credence thinks. The  _ real  _ Mr Graves.

The one who didn’t help him.

“Go away!” Credence says, as loudly as he can. “ _ Please. _ ”

“Oh,  _ kid, _ ” Mr Graves sounds relieved. “Listen, Credence, I need you to tell me if you’re hurt.”

“I - ” Credence stammers.  _ Yes,  _ he wants to say.  _ Yes, yes, yes.  _ But - “Please, go,” he says. “Please, I don’t wanna - I just need to - ”

“Credence, I know this is difficult,” Mr Graves carries on, his voice is soft, soothing. (Hadn’t Mr Grindelwald said something similar? What if this just a trick?) “But you need to tell me, okay? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Credence mumbles. Then, “No,” louder.

“Okay, good,” Mr Graves says. “That’s good. Now, can you tell me what happened, Credence?”

“ _ No. _ ”

“Okay, that’s fine, that’s  - ” Mr Graves breaks off, with a sound of frustration. “Where are you?”

Credence looks around. All there is is black. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know, I don’t know, it’s - it’s dark and - ”

“Alright,” Mr Graves cuts him off. “Are you against the wall, Credence?”

“Y- Yes.”

“Are your hands bound?” 

“No.”

“Okay, here’s what you need to do, Credence. You need to go along the wall, okay? See if you can find a door.”

“What if it’s locked?” Credence says.  _ If I move I think I’ll lose myself,  _ he doesn’t say.

Mr Graves is quiet for a few moments and then, “You’re an obscural, yeah? That means you’re powerful. You can break it down.”

Credence is shaking his head before Mr Graves has finished speaking, “N - No, I can’t. I c - can’t control it.”

“Have you tried?”

“N - No…”

“Then how do you know?” comes the reply.

Credence finds himself leaping to his feet, hands balled into tight fists, nails biting into the soft flesh of his palms. “I  _ can’t, _ ” he insists. “How could I - ? Why should I listen to you?” he demands. “Why should I listen to anything you’re saying? You’re just a - just a  _ coward. _ ”

“Because I’m trying to help you, Credence. I’m trying to help you.”

And that - that just  _ breaks  _ something. 

“That’s what  _ everyone  _ says!” he finds himself yelling and he’s fizzling out, drifting apart in his anger and he yanks himself back together. “You all say you’re going to help me - you’re going to  _ save  _ me but  _ no one ever does _ !”

There is silence for a long time and Credence tries to control his breathing. The silence stretches so long that he starts to think maybe he imagined Mr Graves. Maybe he’s going mad but then a quiet but firm answer comes.

“So save yourself.”

“Wh - What?” 

“Save yourself, Credence. Breakdown that door and save yourself.”

“But I - ” Credence couldn’t make sense of it. “I’m not - I’m not - ”

“Don’t say you’re not strong enough,” Mr Graves cuts him off. “You’re still here, aren’t you? After all of this, you’re still here?”

_ Barely,  _ Credence thinks. But - He’s right. Credence is still here.

“Come on,” Mr Graves says. “Come on, Credence. You’re worth it. You know, you are.”

“He’ll kill me,” Credence hears himself saying and it’s one of those things that he’s always known but has kept quiet and unexamined in the back of his mind because to dwell on it would drive him mad. “Mr Grindelwald he - ”

“Maybe,” Mr Graves says back. “But I’ll help you, if you want, Credence and maybe that won’t be enough but maybe it will be. But listen, Credence, it’s your choice, alright? It’s your  _ choice. _ ”

And Credence takes a deep, steadying breath and begins to feel around for the door. 

He finds the handle and closes his eyes, lets the darkness in for just a moment. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a real short update but carrie fisher, man. i just wanted to write something hopeful in the wake of that.
> 
> thanks a bunch for all the comments and support. i hope all of you are having a great holiday season despite you know, everything and if you're not, hey, you're still here, right? just take things one day at a time and know there's always someone out there willing to listen.
> 
> take care, guys.

When Credence comes to,  he’s sprawled in Mr Graves cell. 

The place is in carnage. The door lies splintered all around him, chunks of frayed wood digging into his arms and his back. There are deep cracks in the concrete of the floor, tiles from the wall and ceiling have torn off and lie scattered about the place, shattered into the small chunks and a fine white dust that covers everything.

His body aches.

“Oh,” he mumbles. Oh,  _ oh.  _ He closes his eyes again, expecting the dull roaring to still be in his head but it isn’t. His mind is silent. Silent and exhausted.

When he uncurls and opens his eyes once more he sees Mr Graves watching him carefully from the far wall. He has pressed himself into a corner, as far away from Credence as he can get and Credence thinks:  _ I’ve frightened him. I’m terrifying. I am  _ **_wrong._ **

He rolls with some difficulty, pushes himself up on hands cut to pieces by shards of ceramic and splinters. 

“I thought you were going to kill me,” Graves says from his corner, eyeing him warily.

Credence drags himself backwards, to the opposite side of the room.  _ I’m sorry,  _  he wants to say.  _ I wouldn’t have, I’m sorry  _ but he can’t because he can’t make those kinds of promises. He can’t promise he won’t hurt anyone when he can’t control himself.

_ You should leave, _ he wants to say.  _ I’ll break your chains. You can leave, get out of here, be free. Leave me. I shouldn’t be allowed out, I’m a danger to everyone,  _ but he can’t speak. Not yet. 

He can’t speak without screaming.

Graves though, Graves doesn’t shy away. He sits up on his haunches, leans forward, “Are you hurt?”

And Credence swallows.  _ Yes. _

_ Yes. _

_ Yes, yes,  _ **_yes._ **

“Credence?” Graves says and he knits his eyebrows together in concern. Mr Grindelwald doesn’t do that. “Here,” he says and shuffles towards Credence, his hands spread, palms up to show he’s not going to hurt him. “You’re not gonna - ” he trails off briefly. “ _ You know  _ if I touch you, are you?”

Credence shakes his head. “I - I - ” he says, finding his voice at long last.  “No, I don’t think so.”

Graves nods, “Alright,” he says, evenly and he stops as his chains pull taut. He turns to tug at them, annoyed, “Merlin and  _ Morgana _ ,” he curses.

Credence leans forwards, “Here, let me.” He says, reaching out with bloody hands to grip the chains. “Let me.”

Graves leans away from him, “You sure, Credence?” he asks and his voice shakes just a bit.

No. No, Credence isn’t sure. For all he knows the small amount of darkness he lets through won’t stay small and he’ll not only shatter the chains but Graves too. But he  _ didn’t  _ hurt Graves when he was breaking down the door and he didn’t hurt Modesty when he - when he -  _ hurt _ Ma and that room was crowded but the only man that ended up dead was the senator that called him  _ freak.  _ There must be some semblance of control. He must  _ know  _ somehow when he’s gone and anyway he doesn’t need to be  _ gone  _ for this. He just needs a little. Just a small bit to break Graves free.

He meets Graves eyes.

Graves swallows, “Well, it’s not like I’ve got options, I suppose.”

And Credence, with his blessing, takes a big, shuddering breath before looking down at the chains in his hands.

“It’s okay,” Graves says. “Take your time. It’s easier than you think, yeah? Just don’t let nerves get in your way. Concentrate on the chains and on what you want them to do and just  _ push. _ ”

Just push. 

_ Just push, _ Credence thinks and then he does and his hands start to bleed black, fingers swallowed up by smoky tendrils and - 

“Don’t panic!” Graves urges. “You panic and you’ll lose control and we’ll _ both _ be in trouble.”

“That’s not  _ helping _ !” Credence says, as the black curls around the chains, curls up his arms. He lets out a panicked whimper and Graves shuffles forwards, lays his hand on Credence’s knee. 

“Stay with me now, Credence. Stay with me,” he says and his voice is steady even though his eyes are wide. “You can do this.”

Credence takes a breath and then another. “I can do this,” he says softly. “I can do this.”

“Yeah, you can,” Graves says. “You can, Credence.”

Credence concentrates. 

The tendrils of black curl around the chains tighter. Tighter and tighter until -

The chains snap, heavy metal clunking to the floor and the darkness ebbs away.

Credence gasps, sags with relief as the metal slides from his hands. 

Mr Graves whoops. Mr Grindelwald would never whoop like that. “Oh thank - thank  _ all the great witches and wizards, _ ” he says, hold up his newly freed hands. “ _ Merlin, _ I thought I’d -  I thought you’d - ” he stops short. 

_ I thought you’d lose control,  _ he was going to say. 

But he didn’t and that means something. 

He pats Credence on the arm and his hand lingers, squeezing gently, “You did good, kid.” he says. “We’ll make a hero of you yet.” And he stands, with some difficulty, using the wall as support. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://callicokitten.tumblr.com/)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna level with you guys, i can feel my interest in this fic waning and i really want to focus on original fiction this year and figure out if i've actually got a career ahead of me in writing so i'm cutting the estimated length of this fic down. sorry >.<
> 
> it'll still be good though i hope?
> 
> as always, thanks a bunch for the comments and support and enjoy!

Graves slumps out of the cell ahead of him, dragging himself along using the wall. He’s curled slightly to his left, one arm wrapped around his rib cage and he walks gingerly on his left leg.

“Do you need help?” And it takes Credence an age to get the words out because Graves is proud, Graves is strong. Graves might not take kindly to offers of help and even if he does what can Credence  _ do _ ?

Graves pauses and glances back over his shoulder, “Nah, you’re alright,” he says, gruffly. “How do we get out of here?”

Credence points towards the staircase.

Graves nods, “He likely to be up there watching us?”

“I - I don’t know,” Credence says. “He was - He was angry that they had your face on the wanted posters. I - I think he was planning on moving.”

“He never took you anywhere else?”

Credence shakes his head, “No, just the cottage.”

Graves nods again, sagely and looks about the corridor. “These doors,” he says, “do you know where they lead?”

“M-mostly, I think,” Credence says. “There’s a library and a potion room and a - a study of some kind.”

“The study,” Graves says, “Show me that one.” 

Credence does and Graves launches himself into the room, crossing to the desk and rifling through the drawers, scanning the shelves, upsetting neat piles of paper. Credence stands against the door, back flat, as close as he can get to the hard wood while Graves tears the room apart.

He doesn’t like the way Graves is lurching about. He doesn’t like the way Graves is snarling to himself. He doesn’t like this. He should have just stayed put. Sat in his cell until Mr Grindelwald came back and just apologised. Just  _ apologised  _ because he  _ knew _ he should have told. He knew, he knew,  _ he knew _ .

Graves yells and kicks the desk over, leaning against it panting. “The library,” he says after a moment. “Take me to the library.”

“A - are you looking for something, Mr Graves?” 

“My wand,” Graves says. He’s panting still, leant heavily against Mr Grindelwald’s desk. He closes his eyes briefly. “He took it when he put me down here. I’m useless without it. Come on. Show me the library.”

“M - Mr Grindelwald isn’t using your wand?” Credence asks, while Graves searches the shelves. 

“He might be,” Graves says. “You know a lot about wands, Credence? I’m guessing no. You don’t need one, why would you? But wands pick wizards, kid. Not the other way around and my wands tricky. Like me. Stubborn. It won’t bend to just anyone so hopefully…” he trails off, tossing books off the shelf in front of him. After a few moments he stops, hand still on the bookshelf and bows his head. 

“That’s why you’re so special, you know?” he says, quietly. “You don’t need a wand or anything to direct your magic into. You can just do it. Power like that is very valuable.” Graves rubs the back of his neck and Credence shudders.

“We can still check the potions room,” he offers, when Graves doesn’t move. 

Graves shakes his head. “It won’t be there. He must be using it.” 

“But you said you’d be useless without it.”

Graves looks at him, “Guess you’ll be doing all the heavy lifting. You up for that?”

Something in Credence’s chest tightens. He’s thinking back to the subway station, the ease with which Mr Grindelwald tossed Mr Scamander around, the bruise he’s certain has blossomed on his cheek, the fear with which the witches and wizards spoke of him. 

His hand stings.

“No,” he mumbles, presses himself against the door, reaching blindly for the handle. “I can’t do that. I _ shouldn’t _ be doing this. I should just - I should just - ”

Graves drops his head, “ _ Credence, _ ” he says, long-worn and weary. 

Credence is halfway through the door, out into the corridor. The doors to both cells are destroyed, splintered wrecks cast about the corridor. Mr Grindelwald will be so  _ mad.  _ He made Credence promise -  _ promise  _ \- that he wouldn’t lose control, that he wouldn’t -  _ he wouldn’t -  _

And there’s no way he won’t know. There’s no way he won’t take one step down here and  _ know.  _

He’ll know Credence was trying to  _ leave _ .

“Credence!” Mr Graves calls from somewhere behind him. “Credence,  _ stop _ !” 

There are hands then. Hands on Credence’s back, on his shoulders, trying to hold him back, trying to hold him still but they burn like fire and Credence jerks away.  _ Don’t touch me,  _ he wants to say, wants to yell.  _ Don’t touch me, you did this! You made me think I could -  _ but he can’t speak around the panic in his throat and when he holds out his hand to keeps Graves where he is there is black curling out of his flesh.

Mr Graves hits a wall, raises his hands. “Alright, Credence,” he says, licking his lips, eyes darting between Credence’s hand and his face. “Alright.” 

Graves looks towards the stairs briefly and then down at his leg. He’s trying to judge whether he can escape if Credence loses control. 

“I can’t go out there,” Credence says, voice shaking. “Don’t you see? I  _ can’t  _ fight him. I  _ can’t.  _ I’d be more likely to hurt you, Mr Graves and what if I - ”

“You broke the chain, Credence,” Graves says. “You broke the chains and you didn’t hurt me when you broke through those doors. You can control it, you know you can.”

“But what if - ”

Graves sighs, “Look, kid. You can stay if you want. I get it, I really do. He got you away from your Ma and no one else would. You’ve had - ” he stops, frowns. “How old are you?”

“Tw - Twenty-four,” Credence manages.

Graves raises his eyebrows. “You’ve had  _ twenty-four  _ years of shit and suddenly this guy turns up to whisk you away from all of that.” He sighs again. “I get that more than you know.” He falls silent.

“Wh - What do you mean?” 

Graves is avoiding his gaze, looking blankly at the wall opposite him. He shakes his head, laughs humorlessly, “I went  _ willingly _ , Credence,” he says. He spreads his hands, laughs again. “I went  _ willingly. _ ”

Credence frowns. The black around his hand starts to ebb away. “Went where?”

“With him,” Graves gestures to the ceiling. “With Grindelwald.”

“I don’t understand.”

Graves nods, contemplatively and slides down the wall until he’s sat, bad leg outstretched on the floor. “My father was a no-maj,” he says, looking up at Credence. “You know what that means? He had no magic. My mother did. They have rules about that over here but my ma - she was from Ireland, went to school in Britain, it’s different over there. Better. Not by much but better. They have guidelines of how no-majs should be introduced to magic if they need to be but over here, it’s a crime. I’m a  _ crime,  _ Credence. I shouldn’t exist. My mother knew all of this, of course but she loved my father anyway. He was a good man. Honest, hardworking. We had a little flat in Brooklyn, not much but cosy, you know? And he had a steady job and for a while, we were happy.”

He sits forward, slightly and Credence, enraptured, lowers his hand.

“I was seven when my magic manifested,” Graves says. “That’s young but it happens. Some neighbour kid liked to mess with me and he’d - I don’t really remember how but he’d chased me up onto the fire escape and maybe he pushed me, maybe I fell but suddenly I was floating down to the pavement and -  _ well.  _ MACUSA wasn’t pleased. My mother got a slap on the wrist because her family had been important back in the day but they obliviated my Da. Just because he had no magic. I had to grow up a few blocks from him and know he had no idea who I was and he got remarried, had another couple of kids and I - ” he breaks off, shakes his head. “Anyway, it wasn’t pleasant.”

“No,” Credence agrees. “It doesn’t sound it.” Credence doesn’t know who his father is. He used to wonder a lot when he was younger, study the faces of the men that wandered past him on the streets and search for any hint of resemblance. 

“So I grow up,” Graves goes on. “I go to Ilvermorny and I sit through lessons where they teach us about Salem and Puritanism and the genocide of the Natives all by No-Maj hands. All the kids around me eat it up, it’s us versus them. Us  _ versus  _ them. I keep thinking about my Da all the way through, though and his family. My grandparents, my aunts. I kept thinking back to that day and thinking that my father didn’t look frightened that day - he did when I was falling but when I was floating,” he smiles, faintly. “My father was a religious man, used to make us go to Mass every Sunday and the look on his face when he saw I was floating was a lot like how he looked at Mass. Just in awe.” He shakes his head. “I could have gone into government work - proper government work and tried to change things but I don’t know. It all got lost along the way. It was still there, though. Just boiling under the surface. Growing roots in my chest. This anger. This  _ tiredness _ . I’d look at no-maj on the street and just think about how lucky they were. They didn’t have to hide. They didn’t have to risk their family getting snatched away from them just because they fucked up,” he breaks off angrily. 

“And then Grindelwald shows up. At first, no one had any idea what he was doing, news from Europe was patchy and with the war we had bigger things to worry about. Albus Dumbledore turned up and told us to be on the lookout when he vanished, told us Grindelwald wanted to start a war with the no-maj, expose our magic, make  _ them  _ who had to cower in fear and I remember thinking  _ well, why not? _ ” he looks up at Credence then and smirks. “Yeah. I know. You’re not the only monstrous one here, Credence. Still, when it came down to it, I thought I’d do my duty. Bring him down when I saw him. Be hailed a hero for my courage but when he came to me…” He tilts his head, gazing blankly at the wall again. “It didn’t sound like  _ that _ when he said it. He said  _ wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t have to hide? If we could work together, side by side? If our kids didn’t have to grow up in fear and hiding? Think of all the good we could do. _ He’s got a way with words, hasn’t he?”

Credence nods, mutely.

Graves runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think - I thought - Well, I don’t know what I thought. Not _ this, _ ” he gestures around them, at the cells, at the deep marks on his wrists and ankles. “But… So I know how you feel. Not all the way but a little, at any rate.” He stands up. “So if you want to stay, you can stay but I’m not.”

“He’ll _ kill  _ you,” is all Credence can think to say.

Graves smiles, “He’ll kill me anyway. You’ve already said he can’t use my face anymore. Why should he keep me alive now?”

“He must  _ like _ you,” Credence says. “He must have had - have had some reason for picking you.”

“Oh, he did,” Graves agrees. “I’ve just told you it. I was angry and stupid and hurt and he knew that. He knew I’d be easy to talk into doing whatever the hell he wanted me to and now that I’ve worn out my usefulness - ” 

“And you think that’s what he’ll do to  _ me, _ ” Credence says, softly.

Graves nods. “And I think you think that too, Credence, don’t you? You’re a smart lad, Credence. You’re a good survivor. You understand people like Grindelwald better than anyone should.”

Credence is quiet. He looks towards the stairs and back to Graves. “What if I hurt you?” he asks, finally. “What if I -”

“I’m already dead, Credence,” Graves says softly. “Weren’t you listening? If I make it out of this that’s fine. I’ll be grand. But if I don’t all it means was that I died fighting and not cowering in some mad man’s suitcase so come on.”

Credence swallows and nods.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not good a fight scenes, sorry

“I’ll go first,” Graves says, at the top of the stairs.

Credence shakes his head, “It’ll be locked.”

Graves moves aside, “Be gentle, Credence.” He hisses.

Credence swallows and nods. He reaches up to the hatch and presses his palms against it, takes a breath. 

“Just like the chains, Credence,” Graves says. He is standing very close, one of his hands hovering just above Credence’s shoulder, not quite touching but close enough that Credence can feel the heat of his skin through the shirt he’s wearing, can feel Graves’ breath in his hair. 

He closes his eyes and instead of pushing, like he did with the door and the chains, he tries to be gentle, tries to visualise the black tendrils worming their way through the wood to the lock, twisting the keys, bouncing the tumblers and then - 

There’s a click and the hatch creaks open. 

Beside him, Graves lets out a breathy, relieved burst of laughter. “You did it,” he says, touching Credence’s shoulder lightly.

Credence nods, gazing down at the receding black coils around his hands. “I did,” he says, awed.

He lets Graves step ahead of him and watches as he cranes up to peer out of the hatch at their surroundings. He pulls back, “Does this look like the cottage?”

Credence steps up to look.

The case is in a dark room. Stone walls, stone floor. The only light is from a small, barred window high on one wall. There are boxes and barrels piled up against one wall and he can make out the corner of a strange hatch against another. They’re in a cellar, Credence realises. The cottage didn’t have one.  He pushes the hatch open a little more, flinching preemptively incase Mr Grindelwald is lurking somewhere behind them. He isn’t. The room is empty, “This isn’t the cottage,” he whispers. “I don’t know where this is.” 

He becomes aware of shouting, distantly. 

“I can hear fighting,” he says. 

Graves pulls him back down so he can step up instead. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Alright. Let’s go. Stay close to me.”

He clambers out and after a moment, Credence follows. 

The fighting sounds louder now and Credence follows Graves up to the cellar door. 

_ “Didn’t I get rid of you in New York, _ ” Grindelwald is sneering. There’s a loud crash and Credence winces in sympathy. 

“Who is that?” Graves is muttering, ear pressed to the wooden door. “It’s not Goldstein. Who else would come after you?” he asks, glancing at Credence.

“I - I don’t know. There was that man, Mr Scamander he said he’d - ”

But Mr Graves has already looked back to the door, “Scamander,” he repeats. “Not Thaddeus. The younger one?”

“I don’t know…”

Something like annoyance passes across Graves’ face. “Open the door, Credence.”

-

As he’s creeping through the house, keeping close to Graves in front of him, it occurs to Credence that up until now, he has never once stood up for himself. He has never once fought back. It has never before occurred to him to fight back.Even in New York, even when he had begun to lose control it’s never been  _ him _ fighting back. It’s his magic. It’s this  _ thing _ inside of him. He keeps his hands close to his body out of habit.

Ahead of him, Graves pauses, holding out a hand to stop Credence in his tracks.

They are travelling down a wide corridor, staircase to the right of them. Ahead of them is what looks to be the front door. Graves has paused before an archway, evidently where Grindelwald and his unknown foe are fighting it out though, by the frequency of Grindelwald’s laughter, the fight is fairly one sided. 

“We should help,” he says to Graves.

Graves is looking longingly at the front door. 

“Mr Graves, we should - ”

“I  _ know _ ,” Graves hisses. 

He’s pressed up against the wall and he peers round, “It’s not looking good, kid.”

Credence leans across him to see.

Mr Grindelwald has his back to them, his wand raised. Mr Scamander is on the floor in front of him, a gangly mess, his own held in a shaking hand, “He’s just a  _ boy _ , Grindelwald. Not a weapon! Let him _ go _ .”

“Oh, he is so much  _ more _ , Mr Scamander.” Mr Grindelwald says. “And I don’t have time for this.”

“That’s my  _ wand _ ,” Graves growls. 

Mr Grindelwald raises his wand.

“Mr Graves!” Credence hisses, panicked. “We have to - ”

But Graves is already moving, up and charging, his bare feet slapping on the uncarpeted floor. Mr Grindelwald is ready though, he spins, and with a wave of his hand and a burst of red light Mr Graves is sent sprawling backwards. 

It gives Mr Scamander all the time he needs though. He scrambles up, points his wand at Mr Grindelwald and yells, “Expelliarmus!” 

Mr Grindelwald blocks it but only just and the red bolt from Mr Scamander’s wand goes ricocheting into the wall.

Mr Scamander scrambles over to Mr Graves, “Hello,” he says, helping Graves up. “I’m here to rescue you.”

“Are you now?” Mr Graves says. 

“Yes,” Mr Scamander says, beaming. “You and - ”

“Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says. He points his wand at Mr Graves, “I take it he let you out. Is he here? What have you done with him? Credence,” he calls, looking about the room. “Come out, Credence, I promise I won’t be  _ angry. _ ”

Credence ducks away, presses himself against the wall. 

“Touch that boy again and I swear by all the wizards and witches that have ever lived you will regret it,” he hears Mr Graves snarl.

Mr Grindelwald scoffs, “Are you going to stop me, Percival? You can barely walk.” 

There’s a whooshing sound as Mr Grindelwald slices his wand through the air like a sword and Credence braces himself for a sound of a crash that never comes. He wants to peer out, wants to know what’s happening but if he does Mr Grindelwald will  _ see _ him so Credence just  _ cowers.  _

Mr Grindelwald grunts.

“I’m not going to let you hurt them,” Mr Scamander says, commandingly.  

“Of _ course _ you won’t,” Mr Grindelwald says. 

Another whoosh. 

Mr Scamander’s wand goes clattering past into the hallway.

There’s a series of crashes.

“Had enough yet?” Mr Grindelwald asks. Credence can hear the sneer in his voice. “I really don’t have time for this. Credence, I know you’re listening. Come out. Don’t make this  _ worse  _ for yourself. I know you wouldn’t do this to me, Credence. You wouldn’t betray me, would you? After all I’ve done for you?”

“Don’t listen to him, Credence!” Mr Scamander says and then there’s a pained yelp.

“Credence, please,” Mr Grindelwald says. “It’s alright. I understand. This  _ man, _ ” and he hears Mr Graves yell before Mr Grindelwald continues. “This man must have tricked you but it’s okay. We all make mistakes, Credence. Just come out. I forgive you.”

“Credence,  _ run _ . Don’t listen to him. Just go, get out of here, kid!” 

“ _ Credence,  _ my patience is wearing  _ thin _ .”

Credence draws his knees up to his chest and presses his face into them. He has to get up. He has to step into that room. He has to stop Mr Grindelwald. 

He  _ has  _ to.

He  _ has  _ to.

So why can’t he stop shaking?

Why can’t he stand up?

“Alright,” Mr Grindelwald says. “Since my forgiveness isn’t sufficiently alluring I suppose we’ll have to try something else. Tell me, Credence, did I ever get around to telling you about the Unforgivable Curses? I don’t think I did.”

“Grindelwald,” Mr Scamander says, evenly. “Grindelwald, you don’t want to - ”

“There’s the imperius curse,” Mr Grindelwald says and Credence begins to uncurl. “Nasty thing. Makes the target completely at the whim of the caster. The killing curse but that one is a little dull for my tastes. A little too quick. But this one,  _ this  _ one is my favourite.  _ Crucio _ !”

Mr Scamander starts to scream. 

By the time he stops, Credence’s cheeks are wet.

“Stop,” he whispers. “ _ Stop. _ ”

He has to get up.

He  _ has  _ to get up.

He got up before. In New York. He didn’t want to - didn’t even know it but he did. He got up. He  _ fought.  _ (He killed.  _ God, he just wanted Ma to  _ **_stop._ ** ) 

The black is there. It’s building, roiling beneath his skin, calling out,  _ begging  _ him to let go, begging him to take over. 

“No? Nothing? Alright, Credence. What about Mr Graves, hm? Do you think he’d survive that? Would you like to hear him scream? Cru - ”

“ _ Stop _ !” Credence yells.

Mr Grindelwald smiles. “Ah, at long last.”

“Credence - ” Mr Graves calls, he’s panicked, eyes wide, beside him Mr Scamander is limp and panting. He’s going to tell Credence to run, to leave them and run but then he must see something, the black coils, the darkness in Credence’s gaze -  _ something  _ because instead he swallows. “You can control this,” he says, with certainty.

Mr Grindelwald’s smile fades. “Credence, don’t - ” he begins in that tone. That tone Credence used to think of fondly, as a comfort but now makes his skin crawl.

His cheek stings. His skin is on fire.

He let this man in.

This man who would so easily toss him aside.

Who only wants to destroy.

Who only wants to hurt.

_ Oh, Mr Graves,  _ Credence thinks.  _ I don’t think I want to.  _

And he lets the darkness in.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, thanks for all the encouragement ♥

Credence wakes up to someone shaking him.

He's staring up at a dark ceiling, cobwebs in the corner. He's back in New York, he thinks. Back at home on his mattress on the floor. Ma must be waking him; he must have overslept - _stupid_. He should know better than that now. Was it his turn to make breakfast? It must have been. Chastity probably covered for him, probably got into trouble for it, oh, _god_ -

"Credence?" Mr Scamander's face abruptly comes into view. "Credence?"

"M-Mr Scamander?" Credence mumbles, his throat dry.

Mr Scamander gives a little laugh of relief; his hand is warm, splayed on Credence's chest. "Thank Merlin!" He looks up, "He's awake!" Then back down at Credence, "We thought we'd lost you. Can you sit up?"

Credence thinks so. He moves slowly, body aching and sits up with Mr Scamander's support. The room around them is wrecked.

"What happened?" Credence asks. He remembers being in the cell, remembers escaping with Mr Graves, remembers Mr Grindelwald. "Did I - Did I hurt you?" he asks.

Mr Scamander is still smiling, "No. I'm fine. We both are. It was quite remarkable, in fact. You're quite the interesting boy, Credence Barebone."

Mr Graves appears at Credence's other side, brow creased with concern. He reaches out, gently rests a hand on Credence's knee and squeezes.

"Where's Mr Grindelwald?" Credence asks, quietly. "Did  I - Did I - ?"

"He apparated away, he's gone," Mr Scamander answers. "Speaking of which..." He stands up, looking to Mr Graves. "He's safe to move now. Are you ready to leave?"

Mr Graves nods.

"Where are we going?" Credence asks. Everything seems to be happening very quickly. He puts a hand to his forehead.

"A hospital first," Mr Scamander says, spinning around to retrieve his case. "Then to my rooms, maybe. Possibly. After that, back to New York. Ready?"

"Hold onto my arm, Credence," Mr Graves says.

"Have you done this before?" Mr Scamander asks.

Credence nods, gripping Mr Scamander's hand in one of his and Mr Graves sleeve in the other.

"Good, let's go then!"

-

The nurse that checks Credence over speaks very little English but she's kind and gentle and when Credence flinches away from her touch she waves her wand, creating a beautiful flurry of brightly coloured lights that flit about in the dim room. Credence smiles.

Mr Graves has been put into a separate room. His jaw had been set and it had taken more than a little convincing for him to let the doctor examine him. Mr Scamander had shaken his head, "Proud fellow, isn't he?" He'd asked and Credence had shrugged. It hadn't been pride Credence had seen, it had been nerves.

Mr Scamander has stepped out to get in contact with a friend so when the nurse is satisfied that Credence is well and leaves, he's alone. The nurse comes back briefly, bringing him a glass of warm milk and a plate of spiced biscuits. "If you need anything," she says, patting his hand. "You call, yes?"

Credence nods.

The room is small but it's not stifling, it smells clean and the bed is comfy even if it's not as soft as the one in the cottage. He recoils from that thought, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory of Mr Grindelwald's hands roaming his body, Mr Grindelwald's mouth following their path.

It makes him feel filthy.

Dirty.

Just like Ma said.

"Credence."

He looks up. Mr Scamander is leaning into the room, smiling shyly, "Can I come in?"

Credence nods, "Y-yes, Mr Scamander."

"Really, Credence, I keep telling you, call me Newt." He steps into the room and crosses it to stand beside Credence's bed. "I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner," he says, not really meeting Credence's gaze. "I tried. I really did. Unfortunately, Grindelwald is rather adept at hiding."

He drops into the seat beside the bed, "Credence, I have to ask, did he - did he _hurt_ you?"

The nurse has healed the bruise, the same charm Mr Grindelwald used on him a lifetime ago, but Credence's hand still travels up to rest on his cheek. "He was kind," he hears himself saying.

Mr Scamander has leant closer, peering at him with concern. "I am so sorry this happened to you, Credence. So sorry."

Credence lets his hand drop, looking down at it splayed on the bed sheets. "What will happen to me now?" He asks, quietly.

Mr Scamander sits back slightly. "Well, I've actually had some thoughts about that. That friend, I mentioned, do you think it would be alright if he came and saw you?"

Credence keeps his gaze on the bed sheets. "I don't know," he mumbles. "Maybe. Who is he?"

"A professor, a teacher, Credence. He taught me."

"He's a magic teacher?"

Mr Scamander nods. "He works at a whole school for magic, Credence. Hogwarts, the best school in the world."

Credence nods. Mr Grindelwald had promised him that too, once. "But I'm not..." Credence says, "I'm too old."

"Just hear him out," Mr Scamander says, smiling again. He stands up, goes towards the door. "But remember, Credence," he says, turning back. "You don't have to go with him if you don't want to, alright? And if you do, you don't have to go right away. And you can always change your mind. I think that's it. Yes." He opens the door, "Professor? If you'd like to come in."

The man who appears in the doorway is taller than Mr Scamander. His hair is a richer shade of red, rusty where Mr Scamander's is coppery, and shot with grey. He has a beard, tied neatly with a ribbon and half moon-shaped spectacles rest upon his nose. "You must be Credence," he says, smiling very warmly. He holds out a hand and after a moment or two, Credence shakes it.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore and I have heard so much about you."

-

Later, the nurse brings round a warming bowl of stew accompanied by crusty bread. Professor Dumbledore has gone and Mr Scamander has just reappeared.

"So," he says, through a mouthful of bread. "What did you think of the Professor's offer?"

Credence doesn't know. Professor Dumbledore had talked to him for what seemed like hours. He had told Credence all about Hogwarts, about the castle, the grounds, the students. Credence wouldn't be a student, of course, he was too old but Dumbledore could take him on as an apprentice, he could sit in on lessons and above all, he would be safe. Hogwarts was the safest place in the world, he assured.

It had sounded nice, idyllic but Credence hadn't really been interested until Dumbledore mentioned Grindelwald.

"You knew him?" Credence had asked and if Dumbledore had been surprised by his sudden question he hadn't shown it.

"I did," he said, carefully. "Truth be told I feel rather guilty about the path he has been set upon. I knew him as a boy, you see. Not really a boy, I suppose, a little younger than you. We were together for barely half a year and I was so blinded by our brilliance that I failed to see the darkness in him." He shook his head, regretfully. "He has a way about him, doesn't he? A spark, something indescribable and mesmerising. A way of making you feel like you are the centre of all the known universe."

Credence had nodded, shuddering.

Dumbledore's expression had grown pained. "Credence, you must know that none of this is your fault, alright? Gellert... Grindelwald is nefarious man. He has swayed countless people and what he did to you was wrong."

 _But I liked it,_ Credence had thought. He hadn't said that though.

"I don't know," Credence says, to Mr Scamander. "It sounded...I don't know. Did you like it there?"

"Yes," Mr Scamander says, smiling. "Well, not at first, maybe," he ducks his head. "I wasn't much good at the whole _friends_ thing but things will be different for you. You'll be safe there and there really is no better place to learn about your unique condition."

Credence sets his bowl down. "Could they fix it?"

"Maybe. If anyone can it'll be someone at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore's brilliant, you know."

Credence nods.

"But you don't _have_ to go, Credence," Scamander says.

Credence bites his lip. "If I don't ... go with the Professor what then?"

"Well, you could come with me, if you like. Or you could go back to New York, I'm sure Tina and Queenie would be only too happy to help you out. We have to go there anyway to take Graves back." He sits forwards, grins at Credence encouragingly. "You don't have to choose right away, Credence. Take your time. No one will rush you. We're all here to help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there'll be one or two more chapters depending on how long the one i'm working on now gets!

**Author's Note:**

> so like i said, i'm not great at multi-chaptered stuff, the three potential pieces are just that, potential and i havent really decided whether im going to go for credence busting grindlewald out (and learning he's grindlewald and just having a fucking breakdown) or newt and co busting him out before that happens. 
> 
> thoughts?
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://paracosmss.tumblr.com/)


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